What Are Words For?

"What are words for?
"When no one listens,
"It's no use talking at all."

The building is almost a circle in its design with hallways offshooting with every 90 degree turn, providing room after room of possible life sustaining storage. It's these storage units where I go to poach, procure and prey - hoping to find any sort of morsel of life to keep my hell going. I've tried to resist but how does one say no to food? Without it, the mind grows fevered and frayed, blocking out any thoughts but that which sates your heated state. The endless void comes calling, crushing all pride. Yes, my friend, I do have tears I hide.

But no merry poacher am I, no Robin Hood who's a prince in another life. These meager morsels are my other life, tiny crumbs of self-expression bringing only fleeting fanfare. Intimacy for me is a public event, a flashing of hope. Self-appointed shotgun sheriffs take aim at this pauper of thieves, hoping to add another stuffed head to their collection. Sometimes torch parties are formed to kill the manmade monster, hoping to kill their own inner beasts. But it is the monster that cries loudest of all, hoping to be heard.

No one listens, of course, monsters are much too much fun to kill. Listen, though, and you might find out it's not a monster after all. So stuff your ears well.

Kill first, ask questions later
But monsters are made, not born, and more than once I've been asked why I be a monster - and that's when words fail me. You see, I've been gifted with a language all my own. When I speak of me, I hear my words just fine, understanding myself perfectly well but the other person hears this: "Krxd pownf oi drrn dllu zxyr". They look at me and nod condescendingly but inwardly shake their head at my inability to say anything real. Used to be - when I saw I wasn't getting through - I'd try even harder: "YTUKL ^%OISK HRW ZJFDB!!" I'd say with utter conviction and emphasis. That only made it worse.

I don't have the vocabulary to describe the ensuing feeling. Panic seems so inadequate. Raging fear, fatal frustration, a freak cut off for all time - those are just a few of the emotions one feels. Suicide should also not be excluded. Yet, if you will notice, I did say I was "gifted" with this language. For you see, when I say these words with love, something wonderful happens - something beyond anything that happens with ordinary words. For while my listener may not "understand", he surely "knows" of what I speak. When I speak the language of love, everyone gathers 'round, dropping their weapons, knowing without understanding. Some fucking gift, huh?

When Debby breathed on me, I knew the hope of love if not love itself. For that, I will give her my life. And for the first time, I wrote the language of love, and it circled the globe a thousand billion times over in rays of golden light, soaring out into the universe, taking to me to places of joy I had never known, places where the lion really does lay down with the lamb, places where war is long forgotten, places where the angels themselves came to rejoice. Such things do I know but can share only in my own language, never in words that can be heard.

I want you to want me
So you see, I know what the truth of me is: I know when you hear me not it's because I speak not the language of love. There is no forgiveness for this, even if forgiven. It's the law of the Universe I speak it, and my stubborn pride only jails me, making me a thief in the night, living off morsels that most nights are not even there to be found, a criminal in both God's eyes and the eyes of men. Sparse is the justice found in men's hearts but Nature has allowed me to mete out my own fate - no one can ask for more than that. The injustice is mine own.

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