Tom Sawyer Final

No words describe the half of the heart that fills this chest; behind the flesh, the blood, the bones of the ribcage it lays. She is no good for me, I’ve known it all along, but the need is still there, and it is pounding its way front and center.  Becky’s lies race through my brain again, and I scream through frustration. If only there was something to distract me from her unconditional value, the whisper of a promise, and, of course, her eyes. She is some creature. The way she moves, the way she talks, and she is only 10 years old! What a female! Of course, the oblivion just below me stops me. I remember the thread holding me up from there, its string about to break, no guarantee. I pull it and he falls.

“He” is another word for me. It may sound mad, but I am what I hold onto. NO one is better than me, and although it may sound conceited, I am the only thing that matters. It may have taken me a while, but I finally figured it out. Becky and her tempting ways only brought me to the Satan beyond Satan: me. Confused? Why would I love myself, yet despise myself. It could only be because I hate one part of me but the other I enjoy.

In science you may experiment with things you don’t expect to happen, like a liquid turning into a solid just by adding a solution. Perhaps someone is the solution to my life, for I am the liquid. When you add something, everything changes. What if the only reason anyone ever changes is because of something other, instead of the self-reliant crap society feeds you.  When someone feeds you things you want to hear, all you do is believe them.

My life is like a movie, or a book. It has a beginning, a middle, and… an end? No end here. Yet. I have this vision that when I was a baby, just born, that these men came and stamped my fate into my forehead like I am a movie. They were always there. They made me fall out of that tree and break my arm, not that story mom told me about how I tripped out of the tree. Yeah, I tripped out of a tree.  Maybe it really was real. I am just the product of someone’s imagination. I was never free like I thought I was. All I wonder is what lies ahead. What are they planning for me next?

Is the rush of my desire really that awakening that I have to strive for one moment of attention, breaking any bond of hold to anything, or anyone? If fate takes me, let it be. Why am I having these continuing battles with myself over anything my mind can think up? Am I really that desperate? Whenever something huge happens in my life, this happens. “Why did she have to leave me? I hate her!” or “It’s for the best, I know she really loves me.” Perhaps nothing could change. Perhaps nothing will ever change.