The Brighter I Shine, The Darker My Shadows

They love my music. They love the way it makes them feel inside when they hear it, they love the way it makes them squirm inside when they remember the lyrics. They love how they hear my notes in the night, and how they feel my rhythms in their steps. They stand before me, adoring my music, reaching their hands to the sky. They finish my lyrics for me.

So this is what it’s like to be alive - to feel the lights on my skin. I shine, I do. I am illumination, I am sun. I am electric, and I am alive.

They love me, they do. They watch me when I dance, they watch me when I sing. They watch me when I light up the stage. They watch me in the streets, in the cafes, in the subway. They all know my name. They all love my name. They know where I go, they know what I do, they know what I say, and to whom I say it. They turn glossy pages to find my face. They see me in the sky, they see me on buildings, they see me in windows. They watch me through the unblinking eye of of a camera’s lens.

So this is what it’s like to be loved - to be seen, to be watched. And watch they do. They watch when I smile, and they smile too. They watch when I sing, and they sing too. I am theirs, and I am loved.

I hate my music. I hate how it is the same as all other music. I hate how my songs are the same as all other songs. I hate how my lyrics are not my own - they are what they make of them. I hate singing songs so blue that they will cry in spite of themselves. I hate lying to them, and I do it anyhow. I hate how they eat my words, and vomit my words, and wrangle my melodies, and sing them at me out of tune. I hate walking into the light that should so illuminate me, knowing that I only become darker and blacker, and that they only become deafer and dumber. I hate the heat in my eyes, and the sweat that drops between my teeth when I sing so passionately to those whose faces I will never see.

So this is what it’s like to be a radio. I am in tune. I am number twenty three of forty. I am number twelve of forty. I am number two of forty and I am number one of forty, and I am celebrated. I am number thirty three of forty, and I am criticized. I am voted for. I am an album on a list. I am a name on a page. I am a machine full of little gadgets that sound better than the voice from my throat. I am a robot with lungs. I am iron, I am steel. I am made of metal, and I am a radio.

I hate myself. I hate searching for myself in a mirror and finding nothing but blank eyes and dark circles. I am a hole covered up with the pink powder they paint me in. When I sweat away the paint, there is nothing left. I hate the smell hairspray and I hate the smell of success. I hate the taste of liquor. I hate the taste of smoke. I hate the taste of expensive food. I hate the taste of my teeth. I hate hearing my voice so loudly through speakers and monitors and microphones, but never hearing myself within my own head. I look for my head in dark corners, hiding under covers, behind armchairs. I have lost my head. I have lost my senses. My thoughts are not my own. My life is not my own. I hate waking up in a bed that is not my own, smelling of liquor and sweat and smoke and success. I hate knowing that success is nothing but liquor and sweat and smoke. I hate hearing my name. I hate being loved. What is love when they know nothing but my name, and the words they paid me to say?

So this is what it’s like to be dead - to have piles of earth creeping into my crevices and to have weeds growing out of my mouth. That dirt they put on top of me when I breathed my last free air feels heavy like a blanket on a bed after a night that I will never remember. I will never remember, not if I can help it. I will be remembered, but not if I can help it. I will never be remembered for what I am. I am a field of weeds. I am a pile of rotting flesh. I am too young to destroy myself, but I do it anyhow. I am loved. I hate. I am alive. I die.