This Is It

The last.
I wanted something my own. Shaped by my hands, contoured by my thoughts. Something you didn't know about, you three that haunt me. I wanted a concert for one, played by a deaf singer. I wanted a private art showing, painted by a blind painter. I wanted my own obscure recipe for a dish no one had tasted. And I wanted the soft graze of a newborn's hand on my face, tiny fingers brushing the corners of my mouth back, drawing my smile in its innocence.
I didn't invite you to my concert, nor did I invite you to my art showing. I didn't copy my recipe out for you, and worst of all, you turned my smile in to a frown. You found me on my island and sounded a foghorn in the blissful silence. You built a lighthouse on my shores that cut through the mist and called out for attention.
You can't hear the deaf singer weep through his songs over the screaming fans. You can't see the artist snap his brushes in half and burn them through the crowds of people in the gallery you built for him. My special dish is a fast food, fried and served with a large coke for you to wash it down even faster, avoid that distinct taste. And finally, the baby's legs have stopped kicking in delight. The innocent smile has faded and the eyes are lifeless. His tiny hands don't reach to the sky, instead they lay on either side of him, motionless.
When you set everything you love on fire, no amount of tears will put it out.

Something I should have seen since the beginning. You can adjust the privacy settings all you want, delete your history, whatever, but when you make emotion and thought concrete, you'll always run the risk of losing your privacy. Whether it's written in a journal or a blog, there is a chance someone will find it you didn't want to. The three of you stumbled on this by a fault of my own and as is proven over and over, our differences will always haunt me. Maybe this is what you wanted but don't ever think you've beaten me. This is through no influence of yours.

Blog is a gross word anyway.