I’m a thief

I steal not only what is precious to you, but what is essential. You might think that we are blood brothers, but we’re brothers only in indecency, in the malignant intent to deceive. We are brothers but not in blood. I steal the air that your lungs crave. I steal the ideas that you thrive on, that propel you to create. You shine on a well lit stage, cloaking with emotions that once raced through you. You tell your story, they all applaud. Then I come to steal, clench, rip away the best moments and reuse them as my own. Your pain becomes mine.
 

With frequency you become desensitised and I become the body that is hurled back to the gutters of heartache. You learn to live with your pain, you channel it outwards and I catch it as it hits me in the face. I like the duality, the connection between you and me. But then I saw you break. I couldn’t leave, mesmerized by the force with which you hit the bathroom floor. You curled up and cried, silently succumbing to the pain that you thought you were releasing each coming night. The pain grew inside and erupted involuntarily. I watched you wipe off the tears. I felt like a thief.

I’m a silent intruder, a motionless robber. I listen then move to create, to make what was yours, mine. You chose to share and empowered me to use the wings of your despair as my own. Never do I take flight. When you are up on that well lit stage, I am curled up on the bathroom floor. When you stand I break. When you break I watch you fill the room with the most amazing poetry. I move in carefully to steal each heavy, honest word. You let me. You smile then turn away so I can rampage amongst all that you’ve decided to show.

Do your lungs not need this air? Do my hands not need these words? All along you had no idea and you never will. I keep on using what you create but selfishly keep to myself all that I create. You laugh, ask me what I had made. I lie, tell you I can never make anything. I am clumsy and talentless compared to you. But we both know that I have seen you break. We both know that we are brothers not in blood but in intent. We both try to find that which will mend the ways that we choose sometimes. We both know that nothing you make is your own. Nothing I make is mine. It runs through me, but never can be held. We both know that your pain is mine. We both know that every line in your poetry has already been sung by someone else. We both know that each idea I have has been used by someone else. We both know that I’m a thief  but I’m not the only one who steals.