Being right

Let’s face it: there’s really not much joy to it anymore. I already knew that things were worse than anyone would ever say, that human loyalty is so rare it might even be nothing more than legend. Everyone wants more money, more this, more that. I know that some days I want those things too; it would certainly make things easier. But at the end of it all, the core of things, life was never more tolerable than it was this last summer, gone so long on the trails in the woods, that sometimes I forgot I was supposed to come home. I could live with that. Live enough to keep going a few more years, even if I can’t say why, or how I’m doing it.

Is it bad that I want tear off your clothes and taste you as much as I want to suck my boyfriend’s cock? I wonder what that makes me. I guess it doesn’t matter, though I’m sure I will always care. The question is always there of ‘What am I?’. Did those girls fuck me up? Am I messed up? I’m not ashamed like I once was. I don’t care anymore. I’ve freely admitted it to those around me. What does it even matter? Isn’t it all just another reason to hate me, another reason to call me a freak or tell me I’m weird?

I want to ruin everything with my family. My cares are so worn thin that it has become flimsy even to onlookers. My rage gets the best of me, those odd occasions it decides to make itself known. The tone of my voice changes, my hands shake, and my eyes well with tears—I’ve always hated that about myself. It’s not a true rage unless tears are streaming down my face and my teeth are bared.

But I bide my time and I wait. And wait. My father used to tell me I was the most impatient person he knew. If only he knew… I’ve been waiting so long, the hair of my enemies has greyed, and the corners of their eyes are marred by wrinkles. I can wait. I can wait until the end of time if I have to. Lucky for me, they will die first from the simple passage of time.

All the people I hate but use, will die without ever knowing why I stood so attentively by their sides. They will die ignorant of my meddling, ignorant of all the roles I played. “Life is hard”, they will say, but I will always know the truth.

You don’t cross me and get away with it.



I can feel it crawling toward me, hear the scrape of claws tearing at a wooden floor. Then scratch, scratch, scratch, as it lashes out at me from underneath the door. Oh, you come calling, I know. You want me to come out and say hello. You want to sink those talons in, let them puncture and hold, like somehow I belong to you.

And maybe I do. Maybe I do.

But I send you away. I let you scratch. You’re nothing unless I acknowledge you.

Now isn’t that the truth?

Fucking Guinevere

I feel like something wobbly and weak. Newly birthed. The world is so bright and glaring, bearing down on me with its oppressiveness until I close my eyes to find the dark again. It swallows me up in its great cloak, extending over even the braver parts that have never shied from the sun.

I can’t let go. Not of anything. I’m always going to be rolling the stone up the hill. Maybe I don’t want to give up, or maybe I want to remember why it is I’m having to roll it in the first place. I don’t even care if it’s hopeless. I will do whatever it takes to never forget, because sometimes, remembering is all you have to prevent the next oncoming disaster.

I wonder if you’re better now. I know you don’t wonder of me. I’m burned and deleted and gone, just like you have done with every last thing that made you uncomfortable. I’m the past, lumped in with all those other things you want to forget. And when you do remember, I can only imagine it is with humiliation. We were of the same build in that regard; always the masochists, always snatching onto those snippets of horror like a lifeline, using them like sharpened knives to cut ourselves apart. Maybe we just liked the fall, or maybe we knew with enough cutting, enough brutality, we could be coerced into changing, us, the weakened things that cower in the corners of existence, so ashamed of their faces that they shudder at the thought of coming out of the shadow.

I’m you. And somehow, that is scarier than anything else. I know now why you shied from my touch. It all makes a sick kind of sense, and I can only imagine how intense and insistent I was. I think of those moments and I have to swallow down my revulsion with myself. Was I ever wanted? That is the question I ask myself every time I think on you. Or was I just a moment of entertainment between the impending insanity that was slowly consuming every part of me? I was crazy. I should have gone to a hospital. But I didn’t. I thought dying was better, purer. And your coldness was like a pool of icy water, so fucking impenetrable and unconcerned. Liability. Was that all I was? I was the weaker one, I see that. I was at a disadvantage. And I took it, like your fucking little bitch. I guess it doesn’t matter now, at least not to anyone important. Just me.

I did it to myself. That’s what I get for caring. That’s what I get for believing in something like love. You can laugh, it’s okay. I know what it looks like. I know what I did. And yes, it was laughable. I never knew I could be so vulnerable and so helpless. And they warned me, didn’t they? Even you did. But I couldn’t give up, I just couldn’t. I would have died for one moment of perfect. I would have done anything. I loved you so. It was like the stupid movies, it was like all those ridiculous books I read. I felt like I couldn’t breathe without you. God, I hate myself so much. I should fucking die, I know. And I’m sorry for being alive, I truly am, because I betrayed myself more than I ever did you. I gave up everything for a dream. I surrendered, so simply, so easily. If you would have asked me to die, I’d have done it without question, just because all I ever wanted was to please you. Please you so I could please myself.

How could I be so blind? What happened to me? You made me nothing. I feel like something that’s not even human anymore. And I know that for part of it, I have you to thank. You, my creator, who so lifelessly shook until I couldn’t bear it anymore. Until I fell apart. Until I couldn’t find myself anymore. I died, like all those fuckers say. Everything was just gone.

I’ve never felt anyone’s pain, but I felt yours. Felt it like it was my own. Who knew in me was an empathetic creature? Who fucking knew?

And it’s alright, because I hate me more than I hate you. I won’t punish myself for what I did, not anymore. But I am sorry. I am sorry for tearing you down with my villainy and ruining that hero facade. I’m sorry for exposing you. But I knew the truth as you knew it. I just wanted something unattainable. And everybody knows the villain isn’t supposed to feel sorry for the hero. The villain isn’t supposed to become so obsessed with the hero that she can’t live anymore.

And I’m sorry for putting your through it. I fucked you because it was the only way you would touch me. I would have given anything for a simple caress of caring. Anything. Name it.

I can’t be Guinevere. You told me that. And I’m sorry. But I’m not sorry.

I’m never going to be her. And I should tear your throat out for saying it. Do you know how much I know it? Do you know?

Fuck you and your fucking unattainable bullshit. Because I know your secret. I know all of it. I fucking know.

You’ll never be that. Ever. You’re too weak, too needy. And you’re fucking Guinevere is never going to come.

Or maybe she has, Arthur. Or were you too stupid to notice the comparison? You’re precious Guinievere, who has a liking for someone else, and takes him to her bed. The irony! Maybe I should feel more sorry for you than I ever have.

In the end, it makes no difference. I wouldn’t take you back if you crawled. And I hope every single day of your life, you pay for leaving me so. Crocodile tears. That’s what you said of me. And I laugh now, because your shame, your supposed humility. Should I even believe? Should I?

I saw you. I saw you as no one else has. I want you to remember that, because I will carry it with me to my death.