An action In intention

Dearest, of all which exists

My place is far away in the mental realm.
Don't bother me with your physical pain.
I have no interest in your surroundings.
I only have interest in your psychic film.

Won't you try and see? I have no choice. You can break a log on my shoulders and my mouth will shriek, the mind thinking about the consequence it could have on my bones and whether I could move as elegantly as I did before. Is it possible for it to heal? Ah and the blood, better find something to hold it back, don't want to be making a mess. Poor log. I might need to take a break from driving, will have to train my left hand, ah! A great opportunity!

The fact that you have directed the object to the subject body part, has no relevance.

The fact that you throw indirect disgust on what I could be believing, could because you don't even understand it, and ask the same question over and over, doesn't really bother me. It is the pain in your psyche that does. The pain I feel and become, confused and blaming.

You could burn my house down and I would look in your eyes wondering what pleasure has this created for you, and when it will plummet, because we both know it is temporary.

You could kick hard into my stomach, and my heart rate would slow down and focus on the cognitive workings of the brain, trying to comprehend what is it that led you to exert your hate towards the stomach. What did you father or aunt do to you? Who was screaming at you when you felt like your legs should be useful for something other than walking?

And even if you have no traumas, still you point a gun at my chest, smirking knowing you are powerful. You shoot me and laugh in joy at the sight of flinging arms going backwards, Spirit leaves, not completely, it floats around you, curious about the cogs that work your brain machine.

Because really...
I have no right to pretend I own my body.
Life takes and gives at it wills.
The body gets hurt and loved.

The only thing I can control, the only thing I am, is perception.
The way I look at the fascinating world of complicated patterns and diverse seeds.

And I will cry when you cry.
I will share your joy as you smile into the distance,
I will enrage your hidden frustration and scream on death's face,
You would only keep me amazed.

My dearest love,
It is not that I love you.
Or maybe Love is just childish serious curiosity.