Gold Haloes

I’m happy for you.
(No, I’m not. )
I should be, but I can’t bring myself to that mentality. I . . .
Don’t hate me.
Please.
I tried, really I did.
I don’t hate. . .
Never mind. Yes, I do.
I hate you.
I hate her.
I hate y’all.
I hate your smile, your laugh, your voice.
I hate the way I can lie through my teeth, and no one but you can tell.
STOP THAT!
You’re inside my head, inside my mind.
Stop being so understanding. Stop being so loving like the older sibling I never had.
You should hate me, and be mad at me for all the stupid and retarded things I’ve said and done.
But, you don’t.
You still listen and give me words of advice and wisdom. You’re no angel, not by a long shot, but still I can’t see or picture you in any other way.
Even as the flames lick my tortured soul and threaten to consume my unconscious being, you glow and I smile and slap myself for it, because I noticed that your nimbus needs polishing and I shouldn’t pay that much attention or even care.
But I can’t help myself, and I just want to die, because I would like nothing more than to pluck it from your head and rub it until it glistens or sparkles or what ever haloes do in that awesome golden, or white, or even colorless light that they radiate in.
I know I stopped wearing my ring along time ago, and maybe you did too, and I’m hallucinating and imagining yours.
Such things aren’t above me, or more perfectly, below me.
Neither are you, but my vision of you is.
My envisionment is clouded and tainted with the lost depths of my scorched being.
I see you in a haze of preternatural ions and pinch myself because I am unable to shake off this dowry sleep and see the real you.
Perhaps you’re marked by an unknown predecessor, who, like others, loves you for what they see in you, and what you might become.
What you want to become doesn’t matter to me.
Only what you are.
You are what you have always been and probably always will be.
But you vary.
In some way, shape, or form, you change.
I change.
Our world changes.
We used to be inseparable.
Indivisible.
We could with stand anything. . .Everything.
We’re crumbling.
Falling.
Plummeting.
Hit the brakes.
We drift apart.
Tug the line.
I can’t lose you.
Don’t leave.
Lock the door.
Don’t talk.
Just shut out the light.
It’s better this way.

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