When you shot me at point-blank range, I knew you loved me.

It's late. Well not for me but it is for everyone else I share this city with. I am not tired. Shocker. Yet at the same time I am oh so exhausted. My mind strains to find words to describe my situation. When I am at loss for words, I feel as though I am unworthy of describing the subject. Because I can't explain it that must be the reason I am denied of words. I must not understand it. Words words words. What are they? A false inaccurate portrayl of emotion. By the time the proper text is found, the subject has changed. My situation and subject is everchanging and words become increasingly difficult to find. It is only after the situation is over that I often find clarity. I hunger hunger hunger for words. For information. Hoping that in them I will find reason and truth. I watch as one by one they drift on into the night while I stay awake with my thoughts and only demons for company. I am in constant fear that I am under-read. That I don't know enough. I am attracted to challenge and fall in love with rejection. And maybe hope is my biggest downfall. That and my mind. At least my creative process. I build cities of illusions and dreams and inhabit them in my sleep or in my private deep thought. And then I wake to reality and am always so naive to find them not to hold any truth or stability. I can build it all up like skyscrapers and tear it all down in a matter of seconds in my mind. It is apparent in my sudden change of warmth at times. I am caught mid-laugh realizing that what I was enjoying wasn't that funny and that the jokes on me for thinking it was and getting ahead of myself. It is strange beause I have become so familiar with depression that I do not break. I am most frequently found in the encasing of my own misery but I do not cry. Perhaps it is the hope that prevents me, knowing any emotion and energy released would be wasted because I've known better times than these and they might be around the corner yet. But this hope is also the death of me. An open wound never allowed to heal because the shooter might just come back, remove the bullet from my chest, and explain why I was the victim this time. I am foolish to have hope in someone who pulls the trigger so easily. But I trust the ones with protection because trial and error has made them wise, yet it has also made them blind. Maybe that's is why they shoot so blindly at salvation. All they hear is a stranger approaching in the dark and experience has taught them if you let strangers get too close you will get hurt. You'll become the victim. It's get shot or shoot but a blind man can't see a white flag of truce. So shoot at me and I will continue, in the hopes that your blindness and my shrewdness will cause you to miss and I will get close enough to hold you.