On the Other Hand
2003-10-25 - 1:21 a.m.

It’s always been hard for me to reconcile the two sides of my personality. Like, what happens to the dark, depressed me when the sunny, happy me comes out to play? Is there really that much difference in the first place?

Like, what if I said I never wanted to hurt you when I was happy, but when you made me mad, I wished you were dead? Why is that sometimes I love you and sometimes I don’t? It’s the classic dichotic, the classic love/hate, the classic Jekyll and Hyde.

And what if I said that I’d used that gun during happy times, and it had seemed more like a toy then a weapon? I still smile when I think about bringing that twelve point home to show Mom. Dad was really proud of me. Come to think of it, his pride in my slaughter of a harmless animal probably pushed me into what I am today. You were hardly harmless, of course.

When I used that gun as a paintbrush to splash red on the easel on your wall, it was like a release, like something I should’ve done a long time ago. I bet Dad would’ve been proud.

So now that it’s over, I can’t imagine why I did it. I’ve been cradling your body in my arms for hours, your plasma painting me blood red. I’ve been kissing your lips and rubbing your hand, wishing you could kiss me back.

So of course I hated you. You’re dead aren’t you?

On the other hand, I have never loved anyone so much.