The greatest pain

I woke up sick in the middle of the night. There’s something about sickness that brings all your vulnerabilities to the surface. You’re miserable. You don’t want to move or get up at all. You’re trapped in blankets all day with a cold sweat that makes your skin shiny and damp. Makes fabric stick as you toss and turn. And you’re trapped there all day with your thoughts and your doubts and your fears.

I don’t have a television in my room. My bedroom is a sacred place. It’s where I lay and stare at the ceiling and think. There’s no sound but the white-noise whisper of a fan. And that’s just there to make sure that no other noises get in. This is my place, my chamber to intellectually decompress, to lay out all of the pieces of my life that I find distasteful and to ruminate.

Sometimes there’s a fantasy, either relived moment or one imagined; I can watch the pictures go by and sigh as I think of what is and what isn’t. It doesn’t matter here, that’s the real truth. It can be whatever I want it to be. It’s a powerful place, like a memory palace, but much more tangible. I look forward to the times when I lay in the blankets, alone, even when there’s a pain there.

I bring people here sometimes. It feels like a violation. I cleaned the blankets not long ago, but as I was skimming through a book, legs dangling over the side of my bed, a wayward hair tangled around my hand. It was light and blondish. I looked at it there, clinging to my hand. Sometimes doing the laundry can’t wash everything away. It’s a shame, that.

I don’t pine for this one in particular, but there is this dull ache of familiarity. The sensations were familiar but coming from the wrong person. It feels strange having them evoked and called upon that way, by this person who shouldn’t have that power. It felt alien and slippery, like something just out of my grasp. I wanted it yet I didn’t. I was open and yet I wasn’t.

I don’t actually like bringing people here. This is my space and I am stingy. I don’t want to share all the thoughts that I think here, I don’t want to share anything at all. It’s mine, all mine. Go away and don’t return. Take your slow touches with you, because they burn my skin and taunt me with what I don’t have. What I want to have from someone else, but not from you.

That’s the part that slowly kills you.


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.

This life is a lie

I’m on antidepressants now, because, why not. I feel like I’m tucked in between some fuzzy cotton, all up in my ears, clogging up my brain. It’s like I’ve been neutered and now I’m taking the drugs to make me care about it less, to make me think about killing myself less, to make me jerk off less, to make me fuck my ex boyfriend less. But I don’t know if that’s what I really want. I don’t know if I want to get better in the same way I did before; something is different, changed. I saw the other side in a brief moment of clarity and now I hide away in the shadows, away from it all, from that blinding light of reality that I hate so much, but influences every step I take through life.

caught in the rain

I left the city early. Once again, my friend was being difficult and I grew tired of her bullshit. I left in the middle of the night, got home in the early morning. I slept for a few hours, then drove to meet my ex. We put the seats back in his car and talked for awhile. I forgot how much I missed having a real conversation with someone, not one where I have to censor what I say, or constantly assume that whatever is said is yet another extravagant lie. It was overcast and smokey from the fires. Even the silence was companionable. It’s easy to forget how much you hate someone when they become more or less a staple in your life. You don’t have other options that are even close to as palatable, so it always feels refreshing, different.

We fucked in the woods. There was a lot of pain to it, but it was good and grounding. Easy to get lost in. When we drove away, we went by a field where the sprinklers cast their beams of water onto the road. The windows were down and my arm got wet. But just as we passed by, the drops got heavier and numerous. Instead, the sky was raining down. It smelled like dirt and wet grass, and despite everything, and the fact that it will never work again, it was a good moment to share with him.

There’s so little that feels good anymore. I want to drown in goodness, breathe it all in until I pass out and slip away.

closing in

There’s a hunger that can’t be sated. I find myself climbing raggedly, obsessively, toward a peak of satisfaction only to be denied upon reaching it, cast back down the mountain, like an inconsequential stone. 

I can’t seem to stop. I’ve been having sex compulsively, eating like I will never do it again, and sleeping until the pain of laying down is too much to bear. The enjoyment is either substantial or nothing, like a coin is tossed and fate is decided upon it. And the last few times I’ve touched myself, I can’t finish. I lay frustrated, covered in sweat and breathing heavy, unable to be angry and too demolished in every manner to discern the reason why. Everything is broken, and I feel like the jagged shards are pricking at my insides, trying to find their way out through my skin. 

I don’t know what I want or where I’m going. But I want to sleep and fuck until I can’t physically manage it anymore. 

I dream in red.


So, guess who lost a condom? 

It’s that moment when you realize that if it’s not on the bed and not on him, then that only leaves one option. 

What’s worse is when you’re sore from two hours of fucking and it takes ten minutes to dig the fucker out, and you have to lay there, spread eagle and prone, waiting for your partner to figure out where the hell it went. And you also realize in your lazy stupor, that it wasn’t there for a long, long…long, long, long time… 

Now I have to go to planned parenthood and get a morning after pill. I just finished my period two days ago. Now it’s going to go on for another, very sore, painful month. 

Now children, this is why we should practice abstinence. But since we’re all heathens with no self control, we probably should all just be gay… 

Yes, I think we’ve found our solution.