The Saddest Lines.

Neruda stared at me out of my dusty bookshelf and said,
'Tonight I am going to write the saddest lines.’
I laughed a shaky laugh.
That kind of laugh which trembles because
you might choke on your own tears any moment.
How could you steal my emotions even before I started to exist?
I whispered to the bookshelf,
To the man who wrote a hundred tireless love sonnets,
But now I, tired, sick, disgusted of the emotion itself - so tired.
Every kind of love damages you beyond repair.
Allow me to illustrate?Its that smart without a name,
A numb and aching pain when you remember every time someone,
Saw you shuddering and crying and used it to their advantage,
Jabbing your wounds with hot steel pokers and burning you alive,
and you let them burn you
because you loved them.
Every time when someone,
Twisted your soul and ripped it apart,
laughed at you,
deserted you,
loved you
because they thought you were someone else,
loved someone else behind your back,
led you on mindlessly,
misunderstood you worse than that stranger you saw near the coffee machine everyday.

But you cried and vomited,
Slashed your skin and soul unrecognizable and irreparable,
And allowed them to reduce you to this zombie like state with suicidal urges,
Because you loved them.How does one simply go on living
after they've felt so much in such a short spell,
Can you tell?
I have seen too much already.
He, an abuser,
She, a, backstabber,
You, a sadistic monster.
I have also seen sentimental excesses,
Emotional vultures and people who defile trust.
He, a charmer.
She, a hooker.
You, a compulsive liar.
I want to live fast and die young,
I am twenty one, and have seen it all.
I am reckless, impulsive, frightening,
There's no salvation, you see.
I dare you to live a day like me.
 But no, you cannot.