You suffer.

       I know you do; you know you do. I've always been here for you. I've seen you cry and I've seen you yell and mostly, I've seen you dream. I am the one pinching your lids closed, I am the one wrenching your lips open, and I am the one squeezing the tears from your drainpipe eyes.

       You don't need to tell me, because I know. I have you all figured out. You're sick, you know that, and you're nearly dead, always nearly dead—but you persevere, and you hold out, and you're so beautiful, and I'm just here to hold your hands, because you suffer, so much.

       Yes, I know all about you.

*

       I know why you are still alive.

       I know about your love troubles. I know about all the people who have fucked you and I remember finding you coating the bed like a sticky, tired blanket, begging the ceiling (were you counting the popcorn tiles? were you in a state of unawareness, but were still painfully awake? were you asking God for a dream? were you measuring the blood drip-dripping from underneath your fingernails?) to let you sleep, left for dead in a slimy white room that still bears your (his, her, and its) scent.

       I know about the person (man, woman, it) you stayed with for two years until reality kicked you in the jaw, hard, and your vision blurred and when you woke up, pounding your fist deep into the curves of your sockets, you realized they had left. I remember scanning the walls for photos and paintings and pictures with indecipherable joy somewhere in the wrinkles and patterns of your faces, nearly pressed together like dry leaves reaching out to the other and dying in late winter, grabbing with enflamed and curled edges; but your walls were blank, and I sighed and held your hand.

       I know about the unhappy marriage and the unmerciful divorce. I know about stood-up dates and tight leashes. And I know that you have never been kissed, not really, not properly, not correctly, not even at all; I know about your white virginity, your black dreams. I know what you tell yourself and what you refuse to believe.

       I know how dirty you are, too—I know about the porn, and I know about the sick fantasies, and I know about your greasy kinks and your pitiful vanilla dreams. I know how afraid you are of a nasty lover, and I know how desperate you are for release. I know what you will never tell anyone—white on your skin, painting your dreams, something in your hands and someone down your throat—a sweat burrowed into the caves of your flesh.

       Don't think no one can see you, because I always can. I am around the corner, clutching at my collar, feeling down my jagged sword bone, closing my eyes in awareness of every move you make.

       Who knew you could be so lustful? Well, I do. I know all about that.

       And I know about your parents—I know about how they were never there, and I know about how hard they suffocated you. I know how trapped you felt and I saw you when you took their flesh between your fingers and I heard you when you begged, pleaded. I know how little they listened and I know how closely you kept your secrets, squatted inside your palm like a cornered animal.

       I know about your brain that is both a snake and a rabbit, and your parents, who are tilting their heads and wondering how they did it. I know how they died at your feet, abandoned your fists, and never left your soiled body. Yes, I know about your parents.

       I know about the funeral you didn't cry at. I know about the overweight mentally retarded girl you made fun of for two years. I know about the only person you have ever truly hated, and I know their favorite color. I know about your secret addiction to drugs (prescribed; illegal; caffeinated) and I know about your open-door policies and the lock you keep scribbled on your door handle.

       I know about the dream you would never dare to pursue and I know what you wanted to be when you were five-years-old. I know about the nights you spent crying in a bathtub full of unaltered air, I know about all the days you faked illness, and I know about all the times you lost it in front of a crowd. I know the spites you wished on your parents and later stretched an angry arm out to retrieve, to take back, as though such a thing were possible; your thoughts flowing down a river, lost.

       I know about all the songs you won't admit to liking, the bands you won't admit to listening to. I know about all of the things you think about before you fall asleep. I know all your dirty habits. I know all your mutterings, your whispers. I know about the screaming; I was there when your mouth was open and your hands were hard around a neck (his, hers? its? mine; yours?).

       I know about broken glass and mirrors you asked for answers and vacations you were terrified of and toddlers you wanted to strangle and all the disorders you (could, might and must) have, for how long you hold grudges and how many people you have forgiven; I know how intensely you hate yourself and I know exactly how arrogant you can be.

       Mostly, I know how hard you suffered for all of it, for all of them. I know how hard they pinched you; I know how far you pushed yourself. I know how much you wanted to cry. I know how many people you reached out to. I know about you, the victim, the refugee, the survivor, the tormented and the artist. I know you are a musician and I know you are a whipped, dizzy bull, and I know you are a bastard and I know you are so beautiful, and I know, I know.

       I know what you are dying for.

*

       You suffer.

       But I don't know, not really. Don't expect it of me. I barely even know you. I'm lost simply trying to figure you out. I would like to know, deep down inside, exactly how you endure, because this is how I suffer: in the darkness.

       So tell me about it. Tell me where you go when you open your eyes; tell me who has your head when you are facedown in the bathroom; tell me who takes you away and who holds the hand over your mouth, worming two fingers inside to play your teeth like piano keys.

       Let me in.