He is my poison, and it'll always be that way. He reminds me of a soft stuffed animal. Like the fur is made of that plushy material and feathers. So soft, yet so quiet. Like a trap, waiting for it's victim to find it appealing, but with no face, so it doesn't know what it's been placed there for or how it got there in the first place. Perfectly in my path, irresistible and seemingly flawless. Fate. Just sitting there on the floor, but filled with cough syrup. The purple kind of cough syrup that smells of fake grape flavoring and makes you feel sick just tasting it. That and the scent of smoke. Imagine a campfire kind of smoke, not the cigarette kind. The thing is that I don't want to get too close to it, because the feeling of the soft fur of the stuffed animal will draw me in and I know it. But of course I do it anyway, just because I'm curious and it looks odd to me that the thing is all alone on the floor. I'll walk up to it, it's faceless expression looking through me, reading my thoughts. My feet aren't moving, though. Either that or they're moving so robotically that I'm too preoccupied to notice. It feels like I'm not in my own body. I'm floating somewhere above myself, watching from a safe distance, waiting for the moment to tell myself to stop and run.
I'll bend down and reach out my hand to touch the stuffed animal that I can't seem to relate to any living creature I've ever seen, and then I'll feel the warm smoke slowly curling around my arms as I let the feeling of the plushy, feathery softness between my cold fingers. Then the sickly, acidic, fake grape smell will rise into my brain and I'll know then what the characteristics of the smell are. Then I'll associate them with other things as I try to pick up the little animal with no face from the floor. I'll feel like I'm in control, though it's completely opposite. I'll pick it up gently, like a glass sculpture or an old picture or a small amount of sand. It's not very heavy, but heavy enough so I know there's something there. Something hidden inside that has weight and meaning. Then I'll finally start to notice, just as I begin to get used to the smell of the cough syrup and the smoke, that I'm not where I was before. Then I'll stop to listen, still aware that this thing I now have in my possession is becoming more accustomed to me as I am to it. I will still see no face as I look down at the thing, nor will I hear a sound as the floor disappears before my eyes.
Then I'll wake up, and stare at the ceiling as my alarm goes off, knowing I'll see him again today, trying to remember his face in my mind, refusing to move as the sound of the alarm's wail becomes one low, droning sound. In my mind as I walk outside into the gently falling snow that I despise with every ounce of energy I have left, that stuffed animal filled with cough syrup and smelling of campfire smoke is still in my arms, lifeless but all too alive. As if a beating heart is floating in the violet liquid behind that soft, plush exterior. I enter the warmth of the school, my gloves sliding themselves off my hands as if they know when they are not needed, and I stare down at the floor, my eyes half open, just watching the floor a little to make sure I don't run into anything. I open the second set of doors and lift my head slightly, just enough to see where I want to see, hoping that that first thing I see is the back of his head up the hallway like every morning. I had become accustomed to routine, and perpetual routine is what sets the maze for the free spirit to wander and eventually find no way back into the open.
My fate has been set. No other destination lies before me but the death of the animal filled with fake grape flavoring and that chemical that makes you drowsy and the smell of campfire smoke that revives childhood along with the softness of the fur that initially took me in. I know it but it doesn't matter, because I love him. Through my silent eyes I can see him, the one that poisoned me, made me this way. But I like it, and that's the truly sick part. That's what makes it a disease. A cancer. I like that he has my heart on a rough metal hook, though he doesn't truly understand that. I like that everything will stay the same and I'll go through every day in routine, yearning like this and usually knowing where he is or where he's going just because I've watched. Because I have to watch. I can't stop myself. It's a disease and I can't help but know things I probably shouldn't.
My feet carry me like my legs are someone else's up the hall, and he will become more clear, his image anyway. The rest of him is shrouded in the colorful curtains of his own life, where his own memories are stitched in. This is where I know I can not touch, and probably never will, though I would do anything to feel the texture of each memory and create new memories with a needle and thread of my own. I observe as he does not turn around, as if I'm a ghost that floats along through the strange environment of reality, just watching and doing my best to stay hidden, though I wouldn't mind to be seen. I feel like an idiot. My eyes scan over him and I make a note of what he's wearing and if he's smiling and who he's with and what he's doing and if he's talking at all as I walk by like the ghost that died a long time ago but still walks among and talks with the living. It makes me sick that I think like this and I turn the corner, knowing that even if I hadn't looked, he never would have cared if I was there or not.
Then I feel horrible as I shake open my locker and think about how nice it would be to be asleep instead of here. And yet, I want to be here because he's here and I love him and I like to see him every day, though it doesn't matter to him what I do or where I am or if I leave or if that feeling I get in my stomach every time I see him completely takes me over or not. The routine continues and I see him and I look at him and he doesn't look or seem to notice anything. The technical things in this "relationship" are what really tear me down inside. You're stalking him. You're too obsessive. I was never avoiding you. It's not a big deal. It's only high school. He never loved me? I misunderstood? What I thought happened in the past doesn't matter now.
All I'm trying to do is become something. Anything. I need his help, though, and everyone tells me he's not worth it. What if I think he is worth it? What if I can't just stop loving him like someone turned off a switch? What if all I want is for him to hold my hand and talk to me like I'm someone? What if all I want is for something real to keep me awake? What if I don't want that poisonous little stuffed animal to die? I need that little creature to stay here in my arms, and yet I know it would be better if the disease was gone and if I could drain that toxic purple liquid from my heart. I still keep thinking past the technical parts of this whole thing that make me feel like I've been wasting my time to a secret hidden beneath the feathery fur and even the intoxicating cough syrup-like substance. I feel like it's there and I can't give up until I find it. Would I be able to give up at all?
The end of the day comes and the halls fluctuate with the sounds of voices and shoes against flooring. I go to where I know you will be, the familiar smell of the halls reviving memories of when I knew nothing, and I see you, though you don't look at me, and I cry inside, holding the little creature I picked up so long ago off the floor to my eyes, letting the frustration flow into him instead of into the air where nothing will feel it. I at least want to see your eyes. Because they hold that secret, and because I feel better if I can see them. It doesn't hurt so bad if I can look as far as I can into his dark eyes, seeing nothing but seeing everything.
My disease holds me close, and that's all that does. I go about as a ghost every day, knowing nothing will change, even if I make that extra effort to talk to him and exchange hellos of sorts. It's not gonna matter in the end because he knows me, at least a little, and he can tell what plans I have laid out in my mind. I just have this feeling sometimes that he knows what I'm going to do next, though I'm probably wrong. It's like a little game, but at the same time it's reality and I have to remember that reality is there and that it needs respect and attention. My disease, this poisonous love, this toxic taste in my mouth, and this cloak of grey that covers my heart in a sleepy fake-awareness keeps me going and keeps me persistent.
The bottom line is that I know he's important and I know there's a reason for this. The little creature with no face oozes with warm smoke and I stare blankly ahead at the road before me, worries clouding my brain more than I should let them. If I didn't have this boy, this one person that doesn't even feel the slightest tinge in his stomach when I say hello, this one person that I love more than anything I probably ever have, I don't know what I'd do. The thing is that I've already lost him in the technical sense, but I still hold that stuffed animal close to me and walk through each day like a ghost that died a long time ago. I carry this disease with me and I blame it on him that it has overtaken me. At the same time I cannot blame him, because I love him, and because I'm at fault for falling like the fool I am into a love that would hurt me more than make me happy. Though it has hurt me, it has made me strong and now I feel much less like a victim. I am the ghost that died a long time ago from a disease that lurks in it's soul after death as it wanders in reality, in love with a tree that will bear no fruit or sweet flowers.
I hate the stuffed animal. I hate that it has no face and no name and a heart that beats but cannot be heard. I hate that it smells of cough syrup and smoke and I hate that I didn't tell myself to stop and run when I saw it looking so innocent and alone on the floor. But I love it, because it reminds me of him, and he reminds me of it, but what oftentimes escapes me is that they are not the same. He is a person and it is a creature I have created in my mind. He is my poison and it is my metaphor.