The Projectionist

 

Would you kill me

for your failures?

Would you hurt me

for your regrets?

Would you cut me

into pieces

for things

that haven’t happened yet?

 

I know we’re all

walking wounded.

I know we’re all

made of stars,

but I am not

fucking stupid;

I’ve learned from my scars.

 

Love ought to be enough

to cure any sickness,

but it doesn’t seem it does.

We end up like this;

uncaring,

and jaded,

and losing each other’s trust,

all because of pride

and fear,

or whatever excuses we make up.

 

Lies to tell ourselves

we’ll be alright,

if we only visit hurt

upon the others.

That little voice inside our heads

that justifies our treatment

of one another.

 

And then from there

the black abyss,

the never ending spiral down.

For there is always something

worse than this;

I think you’re starting to see it, now.

 

Kill me for your own defeats.

Torture me for your shortcomings.

Hurt me like they hurt you.

You know I’ve got it coming.

 

So easy to convince

ourselves

we are weak

and we need justice

for the sins

we perceive

against us.

 

We love

to put on the judge

and the executioner.

We become

what we fear

so easily.

 

 

HG – 2021

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