I know you hate goodbyes

I sat for hours on the bathroom floors contemplating. I thought of who I am and then I looked into the mirror. It wasn't one of those clichee moments when the person staring back is unrecognizable. It was me. But I was common. I was the villain. The animal. The creature I despised for decades. I closed my eyes and thought of the people I episodically loved. I realised I don't know much about love. I don't know anything about it actually. I cling to the word and the idea. I cling to petty lies. These are my saviors. Now, I see people like cups that I filled with hope only to drop on the floor and let them shatter. But When I try to recall the flutter of butterflies, the unrestrained smiles, the trembling of feet or sudden erections triggered by a mere touch, I am blank. I never had any of those things. But I must have mimiced them. I remember being happy though. In my strange pathethic way. I loved to give. To listen. To hold and caress. To make love like a child. To fuck like a machine. To give happiness where I could only receive a sense of joy. Of contempt. Blindfolded and chained, I crawled into beds to please. To thrust, to pull, to lick, to choke. My own pleasure was long exhausted. I dreamt of dreaming. That was my only sense of love.
A deaf heaven. A patient hell. I have cults. I am an emperor with a black smile always living on the outskirts of some strangers emotional empire. I have red fangs and poisonous ideas. I am never insane. I am at most strange or unsane. At times I lie around like a tortoise while fools race around me barefoot. Lately I've been living in russian circles away from bulleted roulettes. I have karma to burn like fields of roiling oil. I am pulled apart by women as if my body was tied to horses. Red fangs. Red fangs to devour and a helmet to seem like a victim. Don't envy me. My children will remain unborn. They will sing blue notes like hopes surfacing after being long forgotten. I am an idol in the desert. A winged victory for the sullen. That's why I have to go. I have orbital maps disguised as children's playgrounds. I have to give the world a chance to forget me. I have to forget myself. To remember why and what I'm running from and then come back. This is no sommersault into the flood. No childish quest for adventure. This is an abandonment. The most sincere in a career of lies.