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.


Through time

I came across an old email today. It’s strange to look back at who I was then and who I am now. I have to ask myself if we really are so different as I pretend. We were the same once, weren’t we? The direction my life took does not pain me, however the way I dealt with it does. It disgusts me to think what a desperate, lost soul I can be, clawing to the one thing I believe made a difference.

How could you not see it what what was drowning you, I wonder?

I can only hope I have become vacant enough to handle such an encounter again. I lost myself, I lost what I wanted to be, and thought that someone else could live it for me. But the truth is, we are all alone, no matter what they might say. I am the only one who will shoulder the weight of my own burdens, and when I stumble and fall, there will only ever be my own willpower to get me to rise again. I expect you to spit in my face and laugh, or run away scared; I’ve see it all, sweetheart.

I’m smiling now. In the end, is that so truly terrible to be abandoned? What should a monster really expect?

If I saw you again, I think I might discover that I still love you. But that love, ah, what a thing it is now. Is love what makes me want to rip out your heart through your chest and eat it? Oh god, and I would.

I’d love to hear you scream. You think me sick now, I wonder? But I think you already did. So I thank you, I thank you for taking the worst part of me and making it so obvious, because without you, I’d have never been able to get to it. I’ve cut it out, you know, burned at it, ripped at it with my fingernails. I’ve drank it away, I’ve starved it away, and now it’s this shriveled vile thing, so perfect for the rest of me. I was never good enough, and now it’s all not good enough. And you know what? That’s just how I like it.

I will never be good. I’ll always be the child to you, the one you found so petty. But I see now what I could not see then. With all your so-called righteousness, I never thought to look deep, but I see now what you didn’t want me to see. And god, aren’t we so ugly on the inside?

And now I’m laughing. So goodbye my sweet friend. I’ve decided I am through with you, for good. You were my hardest lesson, and I am sorry to disappoint, but I am still here.

Oh, and motherfucker? I’m not leaving until I’m done.


I tried to explain to him yesterday. I knew that words would not suffice, not nearly, but some hopeless part of me deemed it one of the few opportune moments to try. How can I explain this without casting everything I’ve ever done or said in tainted shadow? It changed those memories, I know it did. 

I cried for the first time in so long, but it was not sorrow or pain, but a diluted frustration, something so vague even I can scarcely read it as whatever emotion it was originally intended to be. By the time it filters passed my brain and into my body, it’s lost its meaning. It’s a fog of uncertainty, a clenching in my chest, or something so slight that I can’t school my expression into anything other than blankness because I already lost sight of what that feeling was supposed to be. My heavy filter. An endless burden. A weighty cross.

I can’t convey it properly. I tried, but I know that he cannot feel it, only guess at it. I told him so, and that realization, that saying it out loud, made it truly sink into my consciousness.

He doesn’t know. They don’t know. They can’t know.

Should I be glad for your damnation? Is it disgusting that there is a sense of relief when I think to myself that I am not the only one? The smiles, the opinions, the gestures… You know what I mean. Puppet on a string, with no emotion attached. Just a blank countenance with twitching, awkward gestures to satiate humanity. But they don’t see it that way, do they? The disgrace of it, the bitterness in the eyes, the slight, almost imperceptible downturn of the mouth. The hate that burns somewhere dark and buried, but never forgotten, an abominable child that nurses on the sins of the monsters, growing and growing, gorging until the black becomes more than shadow; it’s void, so deep and desolate that there is no escape to be had. It swallows you up, swallows you whole, and you forget where the mask and where your ‘insanity’ begin.

I made a mistake, I think. It’s fractured too much now, and even my most controlled of strokes will not repair. The world I made to keep them away is shaking with doubt, crumbling at the foundations.

There are somedays that I don’t want the walls. I want it to come down, down, down. I want this house of lies to be nothing more than dust and rubble at my feet, so I might start again without this heavy burden, without concern for discovery on my mind. 

I free the beast more and more. He grows so tired of his chains. I wonder what they would all say if I just…let him out? 

Departure Plan

Everything is so strange right now. I’ve been trying to make sense of it, but for fear of returning to my old ways, I feel as though the best course of action is to carry on, and try not to stop and remember that there isn’t a reason why. I could say I’m not depressed, but it wouldn’t be true; I’m simply in a different state of mind. There’s this odd indifference that seems to be worsening. I have no real concerns for anything—I’m just moving along because I know if I stop and look back, there will be nothing there that I see as worthwhile.

I’ve wasted a lot of time, but I can tolerate things now better than I could previously. That’s a start, I guess. I’m doing things I never thought I’d try, and even though the voice inside tells me it’s not going to last, I’m not going to back away. I’ve been spending a lot of money, and I strangely don’t care. There are things I want, things to make me more comfortable, and I realize now that those comforts are all I have. There’s companionship and all of that, but it makes no impact on that void that has always been.

There’s something hollow and cut-off inside of me. It makes me so cold sometimes, so cold that I can’t cry, that I can’ feel anything at all. It’s a bliss compared to that old pain, but people don’t understand it. They can’t understand the way I can block off things, or the way that crashing waves can just slide on passed me without even getting my clothes wet. They don’t know what it is to be a person who doesn’t understand some of the basic emotions.

It’s so bad now that I almost can’t write. My characters come out cold and cruel because I can’t remember what they are supposed to feel or think, I just know the beautiful grey nothingness, and what it means to be this inhuman, monstrous thing. But god, what it is to live in a world with no emotional pain. It takes a smashing blow to even begin to crack the veneer. And even then, there’s this sick satisfaction because I know it won’t last long. My emotions—the few that there are—are so fleeting that they are nothing more than blinks in my existence. 

I’ve been trying to fake it, to seem normal, but the concern over people ‘discovering’ me is waning. I make flat, half-hearted attempts, because in my core I don’t care. Let them hate, let them think I’m some kind of freak. Haven’t they always anyway? 

I’m nearly 23, and I realize now that I don’t care where life takes me. I don’t want to go to college, I have no interest in having a particular vocation. All I know is that regardless of my situation I plan to take and get what I want. There is nothing in my way but people, people who will fold at your slightest insistence, and I’m seeing that now. I’m seeing the power I have always had but been too withdrawn and shy to use.

You have to be forceful, and you have to learn to not care, and I am learning. I’m putting myself out there. I’ve been letting people have a go at me, letting them laugh, letting them criticize, and the more I do, the less and less their words seem to matter. I want what I want, and their desires don’t make a shit bit of fucking difference. They can tear down my art, or the things I write. Let them. It hasn’t been stopping me, not like it used to. The smallest criticism and I would tear up a drawing, or not finish a story. I was doing things for them, and now I want to do things for me. I want to make what I like, write about what interests me, not what’s going to win the popularity contest.

I’ve been saying this for so long, but now it’s truly sinking in. I am actually getting it. I am believing it, and it’s changing me. I never thought I’d develop a thicker skin, but here it is, and I know that not long from now it will be impenetrable. There’s nothing wrong with fading into selfishness. What is it they say? You have to love and take care of yourself, put your needs first, before you can take care of others? Well, I am starting to believe it.

I’ve made so many stupid choices, but I can see now. I’m going to go where I want to go, and I’m not going to be held back anymore. And let them scoff. No one has to like me. Even the nastiest people can get what they want, so long as they are willing to fight for it.   

Into the Cold

I always enjoy October. It’s the time of the cheesiest of holidays, but more to that, it is also a time of change and darkness. Night falls sooner, and the blanket of night seems to smother in its inky blackness. The stars end up blotted out, as the night sky fills with impenetrable layers of clouds. The moon gets that glow about it, a glow that only seems to come in winter. It’s that foreboding kind of appearance that causes you to shudder if you stay out in the woods too long, just long enough to catch sight of it through the tree branches, seemingly skulking about.

Things have been looking up somewhat. I’ve been consciously trying to rid myself of the poisonous thoughts that threaten to chip away at my resolve. I’ve found it’s harder being unemployed than it ever was to be so; the judgment is funny. I have been making enough money without a so-called ‘real’ job, but it is more or less my dirty secret. I’m venturing deeper and deeper into darker territory, with no plans of returning soon, if ever. The secrets, which once were so esoteric and beyond me, are now mine to grasp. I’m no longer afraid of going too far. I find keeping myself so locked away is appealing; I can stand back and laugh, because in the end I have an evil little secret, and it is all mine.

I’m caring less and less about things that I once considered important. I don’t know whether these things will return or not, but for now everything is so fucking inconsequential. I don’t care how I look, I don’t care how I feel. Most days I don’t bother to fix myself beyond showering. I neglect my hair so much that it becomes matted and unmanageable. I was blonde for the longest time, something I spent several hundred dollars achieving, then a month ago I decided I couldn’t stand looking at it. I cut it all off and dyed it black, halfheartedly. Now, again, I find that I hate it. I hate dealing with it, and I hate having to brush it before I go anywhere. I hate having to find clothes that aren’t dirty. I’m to the point where I now walk over to my boyfriend’s side of the closet and wear his clothes because they are loose and baggy and I feel like when I wear them I don’t have to think about it.

I don’t want to be beautiful or memorable or anything. I want to be someone who walks by and is forgotten about, so that I can get on my way. Going to the store feels like an exercise in patience, where I’m forced to grudgingly speak to people I can’t stand. Each time I leave the house I run into three people I know, all wanting to know how I am and where I’m working now. It didn’t matter to you before, so why should it matter to you now? I know you don’t care, that’s why I’m standing across from you, completely uninterested, but going through the motions so that I can continue pretending like I’m normal and nothing is odd about me. You all believe it, because it’s that fucking easy. I can be an asshole and you still believe it. All the small talk is an exercise in futility, because no matter how far you try to dig, I will not give anything away.

I like being able to go home and sleep next to someone who doesn’t expect anything of me beyond some dinner and a few hours of time together. I didn’t know that it could be like this, that there could be someone who will just…be there. Even my parents failed me miserably in that respect. There always seems to be conditions when it comes to love and loyalty, which is probably why I loathe both so deeply. Something is always expected, no matter what. Nothing comes freely, especially love. I didn’t understand it at first, his complete acceptance. I thought it was a lie. I still question it at times, yet as the days pass and as I continue to stagnate and lose myself in art, he comes closer instead of farther away. Somehow, our relationship is deepening, getting closer to the core, even as I seem to be slowly losing my battle to stay away from all the darker things that I desire.

It’s funny, but I once offered someone this same existence: do what you will, if only to be with me. And now that the tables are turned, I find it so much more frightening. I’ve known desperation, I’ve known that feeling of absolute insanity, where it’s either you have this person or there’s no reason to go on. Somehow, this is very different. I love, certainly, but it is measured and sane. It means more because it is level and true.

Or is it? I fear at times that I have reversed positions, becoming the apathetic partner to the clingy one. But I know that I am not him and things are different. My partner is not me, and he will not degrade himself to the point of desperate acts. I look back now with a sense of dread. I never again want to be in such a position, where I allow someone to become my lifeline. We all must stand on our own, regardless of how difficult it might be at times. I have always been the stronger one, and at times I faltered with that. It was my own doing that I allowed myself to weaken to such a point. I am ready now, for all things, and going into that blackness doesn’t scare me anymore. It is what it is, and I have the scars to show for it.

It’s strange having someone wait for you at the end of the tunnel. I am not stupid enough to expect it, but it comes as a welcome relief, and I will treasure it while I am lucky enough to have it.

painting in the rain

There’s thunder. It’s loud and deafening, and I can hear the rain pelting down through the open window. I want more than anything to run out into the night. I’ve moved all my painting supplies to a shed on the property, since it has better lighting that anything indoors. 

It’s nearly 1am and I’m going to go paint in the rain. Freedom is beautiful and makes me happy. And the rain makes my heart sing. What I wouldn’t give to hear it every day. 

A strange sympathy

I woke up this morning very confused and disoriented. It was 3:30 in the afternoon, and the curtains and the stairs were blocking out most of the light. When I moved, I realized something was different. The bed wasn’t empty like it usually is at such a late hour; I’d forgotten he’d stayed home. We had one of those typical moments where we both just lay there and pretend like we’re going to go back to sleep, and I prod him a couple times to make sure he doesn’t really drift off again. 

I must have been out of bed five minutes when I get this weird text. I blink a couple of times and reread it. 

“Can you come to my house? i need you….”

Given that it was entirely out of character, I grabbed my shit and left without much thought about it. I always wondered to myself what I would do if the situation was reversed and someone else asked me for help. I must have come up with a thousand reasons why I would ignore it in the real world, but somewhere in the back of my mind I kept thinking I could never do what had been done to me. Never. Not ever. There is nothing in the world worse than laying on the bathroom floor of a shitty motel, fucked up beyond comprehension, sobbing so hard you can’t see straight. Bloody and hateful and desperate. No one should ever see anyone else that way. I remember beating my head into a wall until my ears rang. I remember the coldness of the white tiles on my bare legs. I was screaming so loud he threatened to call the police. 

Even then, after that incident, I didn’t stop drinking. I can’t explain to anyone what the appeal is of such a horrible state of mind, suffice to say you come back from it as someone else. You wake up in the morning and everything is clear. Your demons have fled you, finally. They run away in terror, because even they cannot handle such a frightening, self-destructive monster. There is nothing more pure and primal than that person, and there is no way it can be let out except with drink, because no one in their right mind can be as uninhibited and certain in their desires as that individual. The devil comes alive, and he’s as flesh and blood as anything. 

I’ve never done drugs because I’ve never searched for pleasure. Pleasure was never what I was seeking. All I ever wanted was something to permeate that fog of control, control that is almost always nothing more than a sad puppet’s illusion. You take that away, and you can find what lies beneath. There is no doubt and the fear is heavy on your chest. It’s only then that you truly know what death is. It is only then that you can know whether or not you answer to that unending question is ‘yes’, or ‘no’. It’s only when you throw up so many times you grow weak from it, when you’re laying there fucked up and lost and alone that you see what this is all about.

Interestingly, you usually only know who your true friends are after the fact. They might stop you because they are afraid, but so few help because they genuinely care. After the fact, things fall apart. No one can live with the reality of such a thing, such a dark, horrible secret. Watching someone lose control is as condemning as any crime. You’ve committed a crime against what’s right and just to them. You’re mad. There’s only one in a thousand that will stay with you after such a thing. And somewhere in my heart I always hoped I would be like that person, no matter what my instincts might dictate. 

She was just fine, if not a little upset, sitting on her porch smoking a cigarette. She was surprised that I showed so quickly though, and grateful. It’s good to know I haven’t lost everything of me. There’s still a little something left, you just have to look.

And it doesn’t matter how many times it happens: I’ll still come running. Because there is no way in hell that anyone should have to die alone. There’s no excuse for that. To do so is nothing but fear and cowardice. I loathe the ones who run, afraid of anything that isn’t perfect. We’re so imperfect, and sometimes that’s the only good part of anything.

How can you not see? How could you?

I hope it haunts you everyday for the rest of your life. In the end I must thank you, however. I thank you for breaking me down in such a way. I won’t be tied down by you or anyone. I am free in all the ways you are not. Your benevolence was a lie; you’re worse than the ones you hate. I see now what I’ve done. I see how I was wrong, and I see my fault in the matter. But I am glad for it. There is not a thing I would change, because I realize now that all I got to see was who you are. 

And things certainly aren’t as pretty on the inside.