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P33ish082: "Bleed On Me"

This is bliss.

Laying here on this patch of grass staring up at the Christmas sky, quiet. We never needed words, you and I. We are tactile people: feeling, touching, breathing each other in. This is our happy place. We are our happy place. Nothing, no one else matters when it’s just us. There are no beginnings, no endings; time doesn’t matter. Here, I am just Passion, and you are just Duty. Ordinary people. 

This is our safe place. 
We are calm.
We are at peace. 
We are home.

You are home. You love it this way. Me, right where you prefer me, exactly how you prefer me: silent, just here, asking nothing of you. You of course never ask anything of me; not unless you are willing to give it too. And so you don’t ask for much; only that I be here, now. Because here and now is all you give. So this makes you happy: this silent stillness.

But it won’t last and we know it.

Because when we get up from here and go back into the world, the noise would seep in, the voices would come for you; the hands that dare to take from you what I’m not permitted to ask. And you would release it, without a word. Because that is what you do, what you were born for: to share your soul, to everyone but your Passion. Yes, I notice and you know that I do: that when you’re here your soul is not. It’s always a hole in there when you come to me, a hole that I fill with my own essence. Oh how I fill you. It has been my purpose to. Filling you fills me.

But now we go back to the noise. You to the house where your soul isn't and me to the one where half of mine is absent. It is pain, my Duty: living with half of my own soul just so you can have an extra half for your journey. So you don't lose too much blood. Because the ones who take your soul will not give you theirs. It is I--with whom you’ve never been with a soul--who shares mine with you. But this is all I ever get: moments; with the next one not promised. But then, you never make promises, do you, my Duty? You prefer to just appear, and disappear. No questions asked, no demands made. All expectations banned.

But this is the last time, Duty mine. I will be taking my soul's half as I leave. For I owe myself something too. And what is Passion without a complete soul anyway? I owe myself the whole of me. So I can be happy with me, and feel complete by myself.

I am happy here, don't get me wrong. But I am also sad. Because unlike you, I like to know: when next, where to, who with; I need to know. I always need to know. But I have to put up a front, because you are so swift to call me ungrateful, needy, demanding; and so I act like I too feel your quiet joy in this silence. I share the silence, but I do not feel the joy: I do it for you. I come here for you. I keep quiet for you. I suffer, for your ease. And you will never know how hard this is. Being with you, but not being
with you. It brings me alive and kills me all at the same time, my Duty.

But you do not see all this blood, do you?


You’re bleeding today. The moon has changed direction, and so have we. But I still watch you.

I’ve watched you hurt, and I’ve watched you cry. I’ve watched your agony, my Duty. Your Passion is gone from you and now you’re blank, and bland. You’re moving, but you’re stagnant. You’re smiling, but it’s not reaching your eyes. You open your mouth, words come out, but you're not saying anything. You’re here, but you’re not. And no one else sees the blades but me.

And oh my Duty, all this blood...because you are determined to be silent: but not like on our patch of grass; there is no bliss in this silence. The times just blur into each other for you now and you zombie through it, acting like you don’t care but I see you. 

I’ve watched you, Duty. I’ve watched you walk home with your shoulders drooped. I’ve watched you sigh as you stand to the door of your empty house. I’ve watched you drop on your mat with what seemed to be the last of your energy for the day. I’ve watched you curl into yourself and mourn your soul and I’ve watched you get up again on a sigh, determined to continue with that conviction that you carry that this is all you’re here for: to just continue. But then again, maybe it is. Because you continue so well. I mean, everyone believes it.

I would believe it too if not for all this blood seeping out from that hole inside of you where your soul occasionally resided. But then that hole has always been bloody, even when it housed the half of mine that I let you keep; now that it’s gone though, I can barely see anything through all that red.

Why do you hurt so?
Even more, why won’t you tell someone? 
Why won’t you go get your soul back?
What are you so afraid of that you would rather walk dead than risk living alive?

It breaks my heart, splits my soul right in two, watching you bleed like this. But I can’t come close now. I still carry the stench from all the previous times I let you bleed on me, but not anymore. I want to ease your agony, I do. I want to come close, take the pain away like I know I can--like I know I do. I do it so well, don’t I? I carry you like you’re not heavy. Like I owed it to you. Like you're not crushing me. And on the occasions when I have needed carrying too, I still put my weight under yours like I’m not losing strength; like it's not killing me. But because you’re only here when you’re here, you’re never there when my energy completely saps and I need another's weight under mine. So I'm always the one who picks my own self up, wipe my own blood and dress my own wounds; even the ones sustained while I bore your weight. So now all I got are scars, and stench. From all the times you’ve bled on me. And all the times I bled for you.

I can only watch you now. I see how you’re hiding it, same as always: getting mad, sulking around, drowning in waters you shouldn’t even be in. All the while blaming the blood on me. But I understand, you have to explain the gash somehow; even if it’s to hate me for removing my weight from under your heavy one, or taking my soul out of your bottomless hole.

And oh, you’re doing it again: cursing me through the pain.

But I understand.

I'm the representation of everything you'll never be; the reminder of everything you'd never own.

Curse me, Duty.

It's me who robbed you of home.


You miss that patch of grass.

I see it in your eyes. I hear it in your curses; it’s in the venom of your words. It’s a hunger. A yearning. But you won’t give in; you can’t. You can't even find your way there. Your rage has rendered your vision foggy and you can not clear it enough to trace your way back: that would require a soul. And yours ain’t yours now. And you can't have mine either. 

I have read your letters. All of them, and they all start the same way: I did this to you. I have since lost the strength to determine how exactly. I have shrunk under all that acceptance.

So yes, I did this to you, Duty. Me, Passion.

I made you feel, I made you want; I made you forget that you were just here to continue. I demanded that you live. I demanded that you put down roots. I got dissatisfied with the occasional grass lounging and silent star gazing; I demanded more. I asked for the very thing you'd never have.

Do you know how hard it was for me, though? Taking your venom and your blame and your curses? Do you realize the agony that your words inflict? How many times has it been now that I have accepted and admitted to crimes you charge me with just so you would cease the whipping? Do you know how many times you have cut me and blamed me for bleeding? Do you know your own venom, Duty? Have you any idea the terror you trigger?

But do you stop, ever?
Do you get placated for good?
Does my bleeding satisfy you?
Has my admittance ever appeased you?

It used to cut me deep, made me bleed even more than the swipes of a thousand angry blades, God. Your curses: the venom. The hate. The bile. The contempt. It used to hurt something fierce. Made me wish I was an ant many times so you could as well just crush me for good and be done with it. The fact that you would not stop, that you would not rest; and all I had to do was ask that you give me one day when I don’t have to rend my soul in two in your name. All I ever asked was all I ever gave you.

But it was too much for you, was it not, my Duty?
I did a bad thing. And you hate me for it. 

I think now that you do not.
I think that you hate you.
You make you angry.
And so you opt to drown in distractions.

You have been talking to too many people, too, haven’t you, Duty? You couldn't bloody my soul and so have chosen outsource me to external agencies and now you are stock full of the poison that they have fed you, now look at all this bile stifling your throat. Now your voice has grown tiny and lost somewhere amidst the myriad of voices in your head telling you what to do. But they aren’t saying the same thing, are they, my Duty? So now you don't even know what you started out wanting to hear.

You are lost.

In the process of seeking justification for the hands in which you have placed your soul, you have lost your very self. You can not hear you anymore and all the voices are jumbled together in one scratchy drone and slightly over all that background murmur is my voice...calling you, holding up the light; showing you the path to your soul, but you can not hear me, can you? You will not. Because mine is the only voice daring you to go fetch your soul, to mop up this blood.

And that doesn’t fit into the script your fate handed you, does it? I mean, how dare I ask you to switch fates? Who am I to even suggest that that was possible still? How dare I find a fault in your believed-to-be-natural configurations. You were born to live like this, with only bits of yourself available to share with me; so how could I want more? I was asking for your very life when I had no right or range to.

My name is Passion, and that was my bad thing. 

But I do not believe that anymore. 

So no, you may not bleed on me this time.

I will watch you bleed from afar and keep quiet and watch your head swivel hither-thither as the voices lay onslaught on your bearings with all the things you were certain you wanted to hear but now aren't sure of; things that now haunt and will haunt you for times to come because you know what you went looking for. And you found more than you bargained for and are now fed to constipation.

But that hole inside of you is still empty. 

It is you who did a bad thing, Duty...

And now you must pay. For outsourcing your own soul for transients which have now become the poison that will continue to eat away at your hollow insides. But go on, speak your curses into the air and let the echoes get to me; I will hear. But I will not beg, not even to make you pause. I will utter no word. Why should I bother? My appeals have never appeased you before; they've only ever served as the wick with which you start the fire of your next onslaught anyway.

You blame, you threaten, you hate, and you curse. I hate that even now I understand the source but the fact that you use it as a veil to be vile to me, projecting your bile onto me and relishing the view as I twist and writhe and beg for my sanity? No more. It is an ugly cycle. It will not break. And you will not stop, not until you’ve recruited enough of the world to join you in stoning me with their tongue. And now I think that deep down that is what you're itching for. Would feed that gashing hole you’re sporting, Duty mine? Me, in one corner writhing on the floor in agony while the voices murder me out of pity for you. Because you are the sinless one, are you not? You are Duty the darling, you can do no wrong. And your life matters more than mine, does it not?

So do it: convene the cursers. Let them lend their voices to yours until your veins pop and your bloods mix and travel to the clouds to become rain and let it all fall. 

But I am done drowning. Because I didn’t put that hole there; you did.
And I am done trying to fill it.
All my attempts have been used as ammunition against me anyway.

Every. Single. Time.

But no more.

I will trash this happy place and set fire to this grass and let the smell of the smoke rid me of the last of your bloody stench and I will stand back watch you through the flames. 

So go on, bleed. 


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