This was never about hope.
You think so little of me that you cast such fetid light upon my intentions. They are not about your cure anymore than they are a means to salvation.
Hope is a tissue. Hope is a lie. It lingers with enough presence that the awareness in my gaze regards it as a lingering fester, discharging enough to keep you bathed in its scent.
It is what keeps you from clawing your skin from your breast bone, keeps you from rending your skin in wet, meaty slabs of flesh and despair. It’s the flame that burns you. It’s the heat keeping you alive.
Your addiction to hope. Your addiction that this time will be different. New. Something other than what is. You wash it away in your depression and slather it upon yourself anew at the first gaze into the abyss.
You can’t stand its gaze. It sees you. It knows you.
And you hide.