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.


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.


Blank stare
There’s a big black hole
Gonna eat me up someday
Someday fades away
Like a memory
Or a place that you’d rather be
Some place lost in space
Itch in my head, that’s telling me somewhere
Somewhere out there anywhere
I don’t care, get me out of here
If I could feel
All the pins and the pricks
If you were real
I could pick what’s apart
And put it back together
This will come true
Help me get through
Into you
All I can do
driving me through
Into you
One track
Get you on your back
Your skin speaks soft
But your lips couldn’t say it
Right now
You know somehow
We could take a chance
We could make it
Make it
Right here
Make it all disappear
Everything we’ve been missing
You make me feel
There’s a part of me
That I want to get back again
Make this come true
Help me get through
Into you
All I can do
Pushing it through
Into you
Into you
All I can do
Driving on through
Into you
You’re slipping through
I come in two
Into you
We could become
Two into one
Leave this behind
Over and done
Everything new
I’m getting through
Into you
Do 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.


We went for a walk, my therapist and I. It was nice, out in the sunshine—what little there was. I feel like I’m living little flits of life between blocks of appointments and traveling. I’m gone all the time, it seems. Hours of staring out into white snow on the mountaintops, and then down into the valley in a sea of trees, and it seems like forever.  The time alone is good, but there is never enough. Too much talking, I think.

I don’t stay with my friend anymore, I stay with my godparents. It’s farther away and has its own share of drama and intrigue. Although, if we’re being honest, I consider those things to be annoying inconveniences at this point. I’m bored, but not so much so that it dulls everything, but enough to mean that I stare at my phone more often than not.

I’ve been avoiding the dramatic, though I’ve been angry and yelling at strangers, exploding at the slightest provocation and sending them scattering. My flare ups seem to happen most often in parking lots and with particularly stupid professionals incapable of performing the most menial of tasks. I feel like some sort of advanced species that been tossed in with the shit-flinging, finger-and-testicle-mauling apes. It’s a constant shit show and I’m thrust into it no matter where I am, it would seem.

The truth is, I just want the quiet. And permission from myself to throw plates and kick doors like a tantrum-throwing child because I’m pissed off and completely fed up with everyone else’s shit.

A welcome escape

So it’s done then. It’s strange how talking to my therapist was like talking to myself; I appreciate his ability to sit there soundlessly and let me speak. I talked and talked. I feel like I share more with the walls of my room than with any human being. But in that office with a stranger, far away, where the light shines in through the window and I watch the trees sway outside, I feel like I can say whatever flits into my brain, and it feels definite and solid for once. Real. I’m real, and I’m a person, and I’m sitting on that couch staring out the window, like I do every week.

I saw her when I was leaving, and her eyes were wide and red like she had been crying. She denied all of her lies, of course. Told me that her boyfriend and I had a misunderstanding, and that her “normie” friends have never had any issues with him. I’m curious to know if she actually told the therapist anything at all. I read him all the texts, mostly to prove my point, but partially out of spite, because I know that any words I said to her will be twisted into something over time, manipulated and changed to suit whatever new agenda she has. And she wants more than anything for the therapist to believe her, to think she’s a benevolent soul that cares about others before herself. I told him everything that was relevant, although there is more. It’s my parting gift to her.

Her boyfriend said, “it wouldn’t be fair if you lived with us because you’re attractive and [she] and I don’t have sex”. Yeah, that was all me, doing all the misinterpreting, I’m sure. I read it all wrong, obviously.

There’s relief, but the fear of not being believed keeps floating in my head, this heavy feeling on my heart. It’s not new, this feeling. It’s almost as old as I am.

I’m not sad I’ve lost a friend. When I think back on it, she was never really a friend to begin with, just something convenient, that I knew wouldn’t last. I wonder often if it will always be this way, if I will perpetually step through life plucking at threads of attachment that don’t exist to me. People latch on, I grow bored. I move on. I’m in a room of strands that hold nothing and mean nothing, and maybe, if I live long enough, it might stretch on for forever, just me, alone, looking listlessly out a window onto the street, watching all the people walk by.

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.