How is it possible that I write to something that does not exist, someone who does not want to exist, and if it does, I make it to not be so. Or I make it not to be so. Word order does not always change the content of what you want to say.

Where have you been all this time, and why have you been here for so long?

Why were you hiding in my full presence and where did you go when you blinded my walking?

How could you not have told me that keeping quiet about you would be the same as keeping quiet about everything you desperately sought to see disappear?

Why did you not tell me you come by other names?
Or that you had consequences for just being you?

Are you the action or the reaction?
Are you the instigator of all pain or the result of something?

Do you come deliberate?

When did I give birth to you?

And if I did, why didn’t you cry when you came into this world, into my life, into my arms. Who put you in my embrace anyway, and why didn’t they tell me that you would grow up into something that at the same speed would prevent me of regretting you were ever there, because the bigger you became, the more you blinded me and I could just not see past my blotted view of life. The colorblind love of my life would also never have been surprised if suddenly all our tomatoes would stop looking bloody read, the same way I just didn’t notice your birth, nor how you took over my life, my brain, my breathing, my words, my everything. You became my nothing. I became you.

When I learned about your existence, I had to call you an addiction to get real with you, to get rid of you. When I learned about your existence, I had to take a good look in the mirror and actually open my mouth, and use not only muscles to talk, but also my heart.

You have covered my words for so long that hearing myself talk hurts the ear. It’s like having to learn to walk all over again, but this time for the first time, the same way God took His people out of Egypt and then made them celebrate the Passover, personal-style. Having words in a dictionary will never win you a battle of love, nor hate. You closed my dictionary and made me into this puffed up human, looking at myself from the outside in, thinking everything is O and K.

Did you gloat? Did you smile? Were you aware of the result in my inner life? Were you the one looking out from the inside, directing me in paths that would guide me along the fruit of broken friendships, the seed of pain, leafs of harshness, and who was feeding who anyway. You me? Me you? Was it you who burned everything behind me, making it impossible for me to return and clouding my judgement to the correct road ahead?
I inhaled you, deeply.
I breathed you, for a long time.
Lung time.

The stupid thing is that I cannot blame anybody for your presence and your monstrous cancer like growth, for they did mention you, but I just did exactly what you are. What you trained me to be a master at.

Dear denial, I did exactly what you trained me to be a master at. I denied.