Like a portal through time

There’s this room here. Old photos are on the walls, even furniture, all from my childhood. It even has a similar smell, like that house scent of some place lived in where you walk in and you can almost sense the life lived between the walls. Everything is a lie though, painted over in sunflowers and filled with some kind of old regret and sadness. Maybe that’s something I brought with me. I’m not really sure.

I feel depressed here. It’s out in the flatlands, in this geographical blip of a place that’s entirely forgettable other than the cold and snow. You breathe outside and it feels frigid. Hurts almost. And I know it’s not just the cold, or the harsh winds that like to tear through the dying grass and the old, dilapidated houses. It looks like some place the apocalypse had its way with. Now all that’s left behind are husks and broken windows.

They’re both here, my parents. It’s like they never separated and I’m 12 again and we’re playing house. They even act it all out. So eager to please one another. I watch with a vacant expression. I stare out the window and feel my mind wander somewhere without me. I’m just looking. I’m just here, except I’m not. I don’t want to live that life over, but this house is like a fucking time warp that I just walked into, unknowingly. It makes sense now why she hasn’t let go, even after all this time. She’s living in the past every day in this house. It’s even in the kitchen with the bowls from the old house and the occasional knickknack collecting dust on the shelves.

There are even old blankets and photos of me everywhere. But none of him. Like she left him out to make a statement, except everything is his anyway. He’s there, in the movies on the shelves, in the bits of furniture he made. It’s like she didn’t want anyone to see, but I see it plainly, without difficulty. It’s lies, all those things she said, pretending to care. She doesn’t care. She doesn’t believe me. She still loves him. And all I can think of is knowing that I know what his dick looks like just as well as she does, and that every time he brushes past me, my skin crawls and I feel like the bile in my stomach is going to melt all the way down, down to my feet, where it will make a puddle and disintegrate the wooden floor below me. Like the acid blood from Alien. Drip drip drip.

But it’s not that bad, she says. I wouldn’t know what it’s really like. Oh, but wouldn’t I? I just don’t speak it aloud, don’t type it out. Because I can’t. It’s stuck in my throat or in my hands, where my fingers won’t extend to press into the keys. The words died a long time ago. They’re just pictures now, playing in a loop, a slideshow that’s playing on the screen in my mind all this time. I’m tense, but it’s easy to hide. I have made away with secrets for a lifetime.

This place feels like some kind of museum; a monument to something I’m not quite understanding. Maybe it will make more sense tomorrow. Fuck, I don’t know.


A perfect ending

I feel like I’ve pushed myself to some kind of unforeseen limit. I went down a rabbit hole a little too far, took some wrong turns, then wound up where I least expected. It’s come full circle, I guess. I wanted some kind of connection, I think. Not necessarily a real one, just something to tide me over until whenever it becomes too much again. It was too much a month ago. Two months ago. Maybe even six months ago.

I get this weird, lingering ache in my chest, a tenseness in my jaw. People touch me and I flinch and shy away. But there’s a longing, a deep awful longing, that never goes away. It stretches out forever, with its spindled, scarred fingers, clawing. Maybe it’s at my heart. My soul. Some deep part of me I’ve never given away to anyone. Can you give away everything and really give nothing away at all? How is that even possible? How fucked do you have to be for that to happen?

Yes, my fire. I think you called it that. Maybe that’s what it is: a fire out in a dark world, and I’m alone, sitting patiently in its flickering light. No one can come for you here, the voices say, no one at all.  I wait, linger. Waiting for the thing I desire to come walking by. Oh, how does it go again? I remembered it on the edge of a dream months ago, just a few words. Then today I stumbled upon it randomly, and it still hurts me somewhere like it did the first time I read it:

Remember me as you pass by,
As you are now, so once was I,
Once I was, wasn’t I? But not now. Not anymore. Everything feels like another slash, another wound, something to hide and cover and conceal because you don’t want to look weak. You don’t want them to know. They can’t know. They can never know.
It all felt like such a travesty. Like a rehearsed play that I had already seen, long before it was set in front of an audience. I knew what he would say, what he would do. Except it was so much worse in person. I don’t empathize very much, but I did then. It was all I could feel through the utter, complete indifference. I felt bad for you. I felt bad for your blown pupils and the way you looked at me. I felt like someone playing a part they weren’t supposed to play.
“I’m the wrong one,” I wanted to say. “I don’t have what you want… They took it all away.”
But it’s a lie. I just didn’t want to give it to you, and they were too weak to take it from me. It’s mine. I’m greedy and I want to keep it. I want that fire out in the dark somewhere, I need it. I need it to live. I’m sorry you don’t understand. You’re not the right one. It’s not that I hate you. It’s not that I don’t like you. I’ve just played this game too many times before. I’m apathetic and bored and you’re decent and I’m not, and that’s really all it boils down to. I’m doing you a favor, I promise.
That doesn’t mean it’s not sad. That doesn’t mean I don’t regret, because even a short time is better than nothing at all, isn’t it? But we had our time and I don’t know that we will have the chance for it again. I needed you to stand in the part for me, because what I really want isn’t coming any time soon, if ever.
I wanted to feel something, and I didn’t. I don’t know, does sadness count? Disappointment? And not even disappointment for you, but for myself. I wanted to scream at my own apathy. My own inability to trust to even the tiniest degree. It ruins even the slightest chances I have at some kind of fulfillment, physical, mental, whatever.
I’m a fucking monster and you should have known when you looked at me. And you kept looking. You stared into my eyes like you saw something there. It’s like you didn’t know it was just a trick of the light. Whatever flickers down there is not for you. You’re a little rabbit wandering down a hole, you don’t see it for its teeth and dripping saliva, you don’t realize you’re in the gaping maw of some hideous thing that is patiently waiting for you to walk all the way in, straight down its throat.
There was this moment where I thought you might say it. You were looking at me and I was under you, and I tensed because I was waiting, waiting for the awful words to come pouring out and to have to answer in some half-hearted way. I’m glad that your phone went off and you looked away. I don’t know what I would have said. Probably nothing. I feel like silence is almost worse, really. I must seem like such a bitch.
But I learned something. And I’ll take that. I can’t feel with any of you. I’m just too far fucking gone. I feel something physically, a little, enough to keep doing it, but no one’s getting in my head or heart or wherever. I bricked it all up and sealed it away. It’s too fucking late. And it doesn’t matter because you’re not meant for me anyway.
The worst part is, I don’t even care. I can stand forever by this fire. Out in the dark. Alone. Til death do us part.
As I am now, so you must be,
Prepare for death and follow me.
But you’ll never be like me. Maybe you should be grateful. Go back to you home, little rabbit. I’ll let you go this time, but only because you were sweet and didn’t mean any harm. You treated me like a person, not just a hole to fuck, and I respect that. Admire it, even.
You fucked me with love. I don’t even know how to feel about that.
Thanks, I think.

Momma Sed

It’s been awhile. I’ve spent inordinate amounts of time staring at the walls and languishing in my perpetual suffering. Seems worse lately, somehow. It was just fucking and bullshitting for awhile there. I even dressed a very attractive man in a diaper (at his request) and eventually pissed on him and fucked him up the ass while he called me Daddy.

Somehow it’s less funny because I’m not joking. Sometimes I feel like indulging in depravity is just an excuse for me to become even farther from myself; the worse it is, the crazier, the weirder, the easier it is to disconnect from any sort of reality and float on that plane that exists inbetween all those painful levels.

Life always has its way. I’m straying away again, and even the usual semi-appeal of watching some dick spurt semen everywhere whilst its owner stares live at my feet, sounds suffocating and even boring. It would be something to endure. And it seems like I endure so much already.

You can become jaded to anything.

The truth is, if I wanted to date someone I would be on a dating app, not a hookup app searching for some kind of connection to a human being that clearly doesn’t exist when said humans are little more than hollow shells barely capable of the most basic of functions. But maybe their hollowness is the point. Maybe I’m avoiding the truth of the matter: I want to use them up and throw them away. I want to get used up and thrown away. But none of them are good enough to break through my brick walls of indifference and ingrained apathy. Pounding away. Boom boom. Nothing comes through. No challenge here.

Disappointing, but not surprising. I’m reaching out for something, something out in the abyss. I don’t mind if a monster crawls up my arm out of all that muck.

I want to play, but there is no one to play. My therapist is too much of a wet noodle to be any fun. They’re all a fucking bore. I sound like a petty narcissist droning on. But what else is there to do in all this silence?

Being a whore is a full time job, but I’ve not been showing up to work.


I think i probably spend too much time alone. It’s easier though than having to bother with others. And the truth is, my tolerance has become intolerant. I find myself grinding my teeth every time someone else speaks. They ruin a silence, the gap in conversation where my brain can sort things into some kind of cohesive mess that’s slightly more appealing and understandable.

My friend interrupts me now. Every time I pick up my phone to text, she immediately flings a bunch of questions my direction so I can’t type without long pauses. She’s jealous, I suppose. It’s strange to see. I tire of her attention seeking. She mentioned recently that she hoped we would crash into the bottom of the ravine while we were driving. She said that at least that way we would have more trauma to talk to with our therapist. I’m not sure what to say to that, not even now. And at the time, I said nothing.

She’s slipping further and further into her lies and I watch with lackluster interest. I told our therapist that I was sick of her constant stories with their changes. Every week it’s the same story with altered details, precariously placed in some kind of effort to intrigue me. She has told me she fears getting boring to me. She’s been listening to different music and constantly makes jokes about how “when we’re married” or “when we’re rich”, we’re gonna do _______. I’m not even sure where to go with it. I’ve discouraged her, but it makes little difference.

Then she told me the other day that she wanted me to tell her what I remembered from her doctor’s visit the other day because she “sometimes gets ideas and then thinks of them as part of the memory/story”. In other words, she knowingly lies.

This sudden insight into her own behavior is peculiar; she tends toward ignorance, willful and not. She’s never been particularly self-aware, if anything she has a strong proclivity for bragging and exaggeration. It just so happens that the previous week, I had a conversation with our therapist about her lying, then of course she suddenly says this.

I know for a fact that he (therapist) uses my words for her therapy. She has told me things he’s told her, and I have to stifle a laugh when I realize he’s feeding her my concerns. This should maybe be a warning sign of his untrustworthiness, but somehow I appreciate it. It’s been making my life easier.

I’ve grown tired of company. My current situation is frustrating at times. I find myself away more often than not. I go off by myself for hours and I don’t look back.

Calculated Mistakes


I fucked my ex boyfriend in his car on the side of the road. He still has a girlfriend. He still thinks he’s done nothing wrong. Life could be better today. I had an extra session with my therapist since I went full-blown hysterical on Tuesday, and that seemed to pave the way for even more blatant stupidity and poor decision making. Because what do you do when you’re surrounded by chaos and feel overwhelmed?

Make more trouble, of course.

Bored boring bore fucking bored

I feel like the volume is turned down and one of those awful news channels I had to watch as a kid is playing. You can’t tell what they’re saying, and it doesn’t matter anyway because you don’t care. You just sit on the couch listlessly as your dad downs whisky and your mom washes the dishes with the obnoxious clanking that all cheap dinner plates seem to make.

I got this girl’s phone number and she’s less interesting than watching paint dry. One of those closed off sort of people that think they can’t say anything to anybody, which in turn makes no one interested in talking to them. I’m not 15 anymore; I wholeheartedly admit that I have no tolerance for the race slowly won, not unless the prizes are to die for. It’s so rare to find something that lasts more than a few days, because everything is so studied and mundane. I can see the pattern already, and it’s worn and tried. Tried too many goddamned times.

I kind of want someone to cut my skull open, take out my brain, and toss it in a deep fryer. I feel like that might drown out some of the mumbling in the back of my head.

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.