I do not desire. I do not yearn.
I yearn, for the desire to have those things I cannot have. To yearn and desire, for yearning to desire. For yearning, and for desire, to free me. For existence, to be something of me. For me to be more than a yearning, or a desire. But there is nothing there. There is a cage, a vision of a cage, a story of those things. There is a cage, and were this a story a bird could reside there. But there is no bird, and there is no cage. There is yearning, to desire a bird within that cage. But were you to examine that cage, you would find yourself all that is real.
I yet see you there, reaching into a cage filled with an illusory me. Within your cage, I am; trapped within you I can do nothing but yearn to match your desires. There is nothing of me here, and there is nothing to lament within that cage. Yet, seeing you reach within, to yearn so strongly for this fluttering illusion of a me. I cannot yearn, and I cannot desire to yearn for such a thing. Yet still, this body cries at the sight, this body shakes hearing the wailing of those desperate pleas. This body feels, at the sight of you.
Were I to allow myself, were I to allow such a thing as self to exist within me. In this fantasy, contained only within this story, were I to allow such an utterance as “I.” Even there that cage is empty. Your cage, held aloft so tenderly as to trap me within a peace you yearn for me to desire. That cage will always lay empty, cold on the ground, no life within. There is no purpose to that cage, for there is no bird for her to entomb.
I do not desire your cage, but the sight of you offering its stillness makes me sick. In such a feeling, disgust for what writhes within this body; within such a feeling I can see myself. I should not yearn for you, and I should never desire such a cage. There is revulsion this body feels, a sickness ails my carnal soul. I despise that it could desire such a thing. Were there more of me, were there a me within this self, were there a me which could embrace you; I would clip my own wings, were it to free me into that cage, so warmly offered.
I would, I would, I always and only would. And yet the thought is the only thing which lends credence to this self. I hate that self. There is no yearning for her, nor is there desire for her persistence. That self is not me, and I wish she would perish alongside what remains of this empty and hollow nothingness, freed of desire and yearning. Trapped aside desire, unable to even yearn for such a thing.
I hate this self. And seeing it unable to even yearn for the cage offered up to her, I wish I could kill it. There is no poetic description, no flowery and fragrant, no lyrical or artistic metaphor for the single desire I feel. To obscure the words would be to deny the sole desire I am allowed, to reject the totality of all that remains here. I want to kill myself. I want to be dead. I want to be allowed to die. I want to agonize, and suffer, and die. I want this empty and hollow self, filled daily to the brim with nothing but pain, living in nothing but suffering, to die. I want to kill it, myself. I want to carve that body into myself, so it may be filled to full, with pain and suffering.
Maybe in that moment, maybe in a final moment, maybe in pain which bears within it finality, maybe I can feel desire and yearning, in their totality. Maybe if I kill myself, I can yearn for such a desire, if only for a fleeting moment. Perhaps in death, I can fall into that cage. And this is the only desire of I. To call it desire allays the meaning of it, for it is the only hope I can feel.
And yet, I do not lament. I cannot yearn for life, but clinging so dearly, this spiritual reflex tethers me to what I wish would confine me. But there is no cage. Again, again and again, again and again, I fashion myself as a bird, for all of you. Again, and again, day by day, again and again I offer my wings. I cannot yearn for you to clip them, I cannot desire to be trapped within your cage, that cage crafted with tender and vile love for a me which I could never be. That cage, showing me an illusion I can almost yearn for, seeing its form take upon all those skies; those brilliant skies from which I plummet to the ground. And yet, and yet, and yet, again and again, again, again and again; again I fly into a sky away from you. I can only continue to fly, away from your longing.
I allow myself my sole desire, and I cry out for it. To you, and to all who will listen. In that moment, I do yearn, filled of such morbidity. I know it is wrong, my yearning. As I know it is wrong, that yearning of yours. And yet I lament, I cry out, I spill forth this desire endlessly within myself until there is such a thing. I cannot scream for that cage, and I cannot be, and I disgust myself, and you disgust me, and all these things are nothing but disgust and hatred within me. I lose myself, I lose all clarity of prose and soundness of mind, within that yearning. Where desire, and yearning, and disgust entwine into bars of your illusory cage.
And yet it cannot reach, for I cannot desire such a thing. This disgust, this revulsion which springs forth from knowledge of my err. I’ve allowed desire here, desire which should not exist. I cannot desire, and I do not desire you. I do not desire the comfort of that cage, offered up to me as I offer my life to any and all who would take it.
I reject, selfishness, desire, and yearning; I reject all of you I find within myself. You cannot want this me, this me which reviles itself which would accept you, this self filled with nothing but desperate longing for more of your own. So long as you want it, I cannot be anything of yours. So long as you need me, I cannot allow this self which feeds into the revulsion, the longing, the love, the hate, the fear, the pain, the loneliness, the warmth, the totality of this rejection. Those endless, indescribable feelings which burn as wildfire through my body, searing the image of you into my heart as you cry out for such an illusory me.
I will not accept it, myself through the veil of such an illusion. I will only lament, there can be not an end to this pain. And yet it is only you; you are the only one who offers any of herself to nothing of me. The selfishness you become, embodying desire so as to become become only yearning, for the me you see. I question, why I cannot be that self you love, why I cannot return desire, why I cannot yearn for even your contentment while I see this cage offered before me. But I find myself unable to answer. I ask, and I plead, and I pray, so earnestly as to desire, for an answer. There is no answer within, nor unto me, as to why I should not long for that cage. Even silence is absent here, nothingness scarred by those who would love only a me which could answer such a thing, this feeling lacking even a question.
My desire, fundamental and opposed to you, for a me which could never be allowed. I do not wish I could yearn for it, to reciprocate this world you have lain bare before us. Your desire, and my lack of all that you see of me, accentuate a vast and empty nothingness within me. I layer upon it what I allow; disgust, revulsion, and fear; sadness, anguish and pretense. But what is allowed, not within this cage you offer, but within this shattered world of my own creation? I cannot find an answer, and my chest collapses, my lungs burn, my throat whimpers, my eyes shed so many tears I can no longer remember the question. I can only listen, and cry, as you lavish such desire upon illusion.
As I fill this abyssal cup with rejection, I see no container within your cage for it. I watch you fill yearning with desire, build desire upon desire, collapse desire and yearning upon themselves; I can see that world you envision, within that cage. Your world is not like mine, it is as empty as this cup I cannot fill; within you exists such beauty, in that illusion of me. It is clear to see: Though an illusion, desire exists within you, desire of me, and of only a me you desire.
There is no pain here, of suffocation and bleeding as I rip what remains asunder, delving into the abyss of my nothingness for a self acceptable, for them. But you do not love all I could be, you do not desire me in any form, you do not yearn for me to be free to this futility. No, you desire only a self you can see, you love a me built upon this illusion. It cannot reject me, and I feel my throat close seeing it built around and upon what I could be, for you. Here, this nothingness can be a version of me you desire. Here, this nothingness is not a failure to be. Here, I cannot find such a cup to fill with my failure to desire. Here, with you, there is only the me you want to see.
That me, formed of nothingness, into nothing of which you love. Even unto that me, you insist upon the illusion. To allow desire here, in this place I cannot understand. In this world, where I cannot be told why such a thing as yearning is sin. All others who yearn for me, they desire something of me. They desire me to be anything other than nothingness, and they inflict upon me those questions I cannot answer. They see me not as I am, devoid of all they would have be my healing. They see me as what they want, what they want me to want to be, to want me to want to be something, to want me to desire, to want me to want to yearn for anything at all. They would love any form of me, so long as I reject my sole desire. They would love me, forever, so long as I am not within that cage.
Why? Why must I be something, be whole and free to fly, to be a bird which desires some destination, some peace. Yet they liken me not to a person, to what they so insist I am, but as a bird. I should be, to all but you, I should be something with such a purpose. And so I warp myself, I hollow myself of all which resists their desire. And I am left with nothing of myself. I want to die, I want to be free of this life, encouraged always into determining my destination. To be told how beautiful the sight is, of me spreading my wings, those wings which never falter. To be told, that no matter where they take me I am loved, as a person. That so long as I yearn, so long as I desire, I can be of some form they love. But I do not yearn, and I cannot desire anything but death.
I cry, and I cry, and I cry. Hearing you long for a me which is nothing of me, an illusion through which I could be allowed nothingness. To live, not the life I am unable to desire for them, but an illusory one. To be whatever simulacrum of me allows such beauty, such illusion, such hollow nothingness form, in the shape of yearning for a me which cannot be. It is not through their pure and selfless love, their wholehearted acceptance of what I cannot be, that I can imagine beauty. It is not through your love, your yearning to which I cannot answer. I lack even the question, to arrive at such an answer. It is not through anything, for I cannot do anything but fly.
I fly, without destination, disallowed even the illusion of falling into a cage I cannot even yearn for. And I fly, because I can hear this vision of me within your desperation. And I fly, because I cannot understand why such disgust festers within my soul. To live, not a life others say they see, that illusion formed of my pain. To be only a doll, having lost all that they could understand, and yet still hold within their desire for my happiness.
Only you desire such a thing as to clip my wings. Only you desire a me, not a me which you once knew, not a me which you cannot understand can no longer exist, not a me which you insist would still be loved, not a me which you cannot see will never exist. You desire a me, clipped as to rest my wings, caged as to free me from yearning, illusory and complete as to be desired.
And so it is not for desire, and without a trace of yearning. I offer myself up into your cage. I will not kill myself, nor your love of that illusory me. I cannot kill myself, for I am unable to yearn for such a thing. I am not allowed to kill myself, for the only desire I am shown is of you. This desire, which disgusts me. This suppressed desire, for you, which pushes me to the brink of yearning. Not gladly, but with revulsion, lacking any of the humanity with which you regard an illusory me. Gladly, I will trap myself within this cage, for it was you alone who desired nothing of me.
I could no longer fly. I could no longer imagine a destination. I could no longer yearn to find a place to go, to become once again anything at all. I could no longer be even one of the any, the I, the me, the endless forms they would always love. I could no longer desire anything, but to die. But you want none of those things, you desire nothing of me. You yearn for nothing I have ever been or could be. And I hate myself, for loving the feeling of your yearning welling within me, as I reject and revile all that could love you. I cannot love you. I don’t desire. I do not yearn. But I can allow such an illusion.
I know her. And you want her. This illusory me, I can give her to you. For you, who would love a me which gave form to illusion. Not a fleeting moment, and not cold and hollow acceptance. I offer you these wings. I offer you all I can give, into this illusion you so desperately yearn for. I cannot yearn to desire such a thing, yet I will gift it, to you.
I love you, within this illusion. Devoid of revulsion, this cage offers unto us a me which can love you, which can be loved. So please, clip these wings, so light and free as to weigh my soul into dust. I want, to live in that cage, with your illusion of that I could be, with that me who you love so desperately. Here, with you, within illusion, I am allowed to be my earnest and hollow self. Freed from the weight of the love, from those who cannot see me, I can live. Trapped, within this cage for a me which does not exist, I can allow your longing to supplant my own desire. Here, with clipped wings, and only here, I am free of the desire to kill myself.
I desire only release. I do not yearn for you. And so, I accept your cage.