Could you love a heart that is black, weary? I must warn you, mine is both that and worse. And, not in the least, hardly given. Could you love a heart that was broken so many times it seems beyond repair, damaged until there was barely anything left to break? I must warn you again, mine is just so. Can you, in your heart, combine the one of a soldier and a poet, a lover, a madman?
I bear with me no hard feelings. There is no more pain left to feel. Sometimes I fear that even now, as I have come this far, it's all used up. My tears have dried, my wounds turned to scars. But it's all there. Stuck in this body. Somewhere deep down it is still all there. Waiting, brewing, taking the time to find exactly the right moment to burst out. And that will be the end of me.
So tell me, could you love a heart like mine, twisted in too many stange ways? How could you love a ticking bom, only to know that some day it's going to explode? I would despise you if you could, and love you all the more for just that.
I can hear them, you know. In my head they repeat words until it drives me back in memories too real. And sometimes, yes, they cause my scars to open up wide again, leaving me broken on the floor again. I will tell you this about me: I'm not crazy. Will you believe that? I just grow so tired of those memories.