futility

she was your star, and around her we both spun

you as the earth to her fire

and me as the lonely moon, tugging at the waves inside you

when you turned your back to me, I wept in the cold of your shadow

for she alone held your light

now that she’s gone, we stay cold together

fumbling in the dark over wreckage we can’t forget

struggling to find light in the deadness

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transience

So tell me now if I should let go. Tell me now because I’m falling fast into this cocoon of security and of comfort. For once, I move away and you pull me closer. I used to sit by with a sinking heart as I watched your mind float away into a tormented world I had no place in. You seem to have left that behind you because you’re always here now, but will you stay?

I don’t know what I did to deserve this but I want to hold on, I want to believe it and I want to feel you. It feels real but I don’t know why it would be when transience has always been the essence of our story. I feel this affection is conditional, and the condition is that I act like a good little girl, that I don’t ruffle feathers, don’t cry too much or for the wrong reasons, that I’m always ready with a wet mouth aspiring to please and distract you. I’m not sure I can keep trying so desperately to prove I’m worthy a fidelity that may not even exist.

hell season

Maybe I put too much blame on you. Maybe the blame should be on the circumstances, hell, maybe the blame should be on me. I’m the one who keeps coming back for it. Maybe it’s not for the love, maybe it’s because something inside of me needed this. The insecurities that have long since turned to hate have shamed me. Again and again, I’ve run from this pain only to return upon a whirlwind of fantasy and find myself on my knees, a fire before me. Embers burn and glow in my eyes and I am transfixed by this fire you cannot see. The sense of desperation you impart beckons me into the flames if only I could be brave enough to burn.

Well, maybe this is hell season. Maybe there was just no other way for me. Maybe if your love was easy, if there was no struggle for your affections I would be in blissful ignorance resting upon the laurels that soothe me with the fallacy that I am enough. Maybe that security would have stunted me, made me soft. Maybe I’m sick for coming back to this place that makes me hate myself, but here I am in the fucking fire and I’m getting real comfortable now. I don’t know how long this will take but I’m starting to like it. The shame has burned away and the fire rages farther inside forging steel guts and thick skin slick with vim. Am I worthy now? Don’t answer, I’m not done here. If I needed to burn like this, then you were well worth the pain but it doesn’t mean I have to thank you for it.

peeled

I have thirty-two days. The first few weeks were tough to get through without booze but my body felt better every day so that kept me going. But something has changed. I can’t stand to be in my body when I’m working, or around anyone. I see girls so freely sharing themselves, so comfortable. I just want to run away. I don’t want anyone to look at me but at the same time, I so desperately need them to. No wonder I’m not making any money. I don’t know if they handle it because they’re more comfortable with themselves or if they have something fucked up about them that allows them to be so careless, so giving of their bodies. Maybe we’re just cut from a different cloth. Maybe all of the above. I remember from a young age feeling very naked at times. I feel naked now anytime I go out in public. I’ve fantasized about wearing a fucking hijab. I’m not kidding. I’m so tired of men looking at me, assessing me and judging me. I’m tired of people thinking about fucking me when I feel so broken, their lust feels cruel. I feel preyed upon and it makes me so angry. But the anger just makes me tired because I know I’d be too ashamed to express it. I wish I could walk through the world unnoticed, I wish I could just be left alone. Being alone is probably hurting me too but I just can’t bring myself to be around people. And it doesn’t help that I just can’t stand anyone. I can’t stand this culture I’m in, I can’t stand the posturing and the way some people just all seem to talk the same. I can’t stand the contrived earnestness people try to speak to me with at work. I feel like they’re trying to pry me apart. I want to run but I can’t run. I have to sit there and play the game with them. My stomach recoils as I watch their eyes bore into mine, ready to be entertained, enjoying themselves. I’ve always been this way. I cannot stand for people to try and pull out my inner workings so they can examine them. I don’t understand why people feel entitled to that. Why do people try to crack me open? It’s not from a place of benevolence, it’s perverse curiosity. Or perhaps sometimes it’s just an unexamined impulse they have. A man asked me last night “What makes you smile?”. I suppose some would find this question sweet, but I wanted to smash his head onto the table. I knew he just wanted a fun little anecdote he could put in his pocket and walk away with. He would smirk and give himself a pat on the back for being what he thought was original in a place steeped in cliche. But I refuse to let people think they can take pieces of me.

I’m not totally ignorant, here. I know I’m supposed to play the part, I know I’m supposed to have routine answers ready for this type of bullshit. After all, these interactions aren’t real, they’re designed to not be real. But I’m just so fucking raw right now. The armor I used for so long to shield myself from my sensitivities has been stripped, and for good reason. These used to be the moments where I would load up, take another shot, a way of saying “fuck you, I don’t feel any of this” while I essentially buried my head in the sand.

Now I have to build armor that’s real. I have to feel my feelings blah blah, I have to do a lot of fucking things. And I’m tired. I just cannot do what needs to be done right now and at the same time, I can’t afford to be like this. I can’t afford to lay in bed all day just because the world hurts too much right now. I don’t know what to do. I pray this will pass if I just let myself rest, but at what point does self-preservation become self-indulgence? Everything demands something of me, everything is screaming at me to get up, get up. But I just won’t. I can’t push anymore. Being at home alone in this hole feels like shit but at least I’m safe here.

cripple

This used to be this kind of thing would send me into a tailspin. Used to be I’d need eight drinks right about now. But I just don’t anymore.

You used that picture I took of you to advertise yourself to other women. Publicized a private moment seen through my eyes. And isn’t it ironic that if they truly gazed at you from my vantage point they would run the other way?

When we were together I ignored people’s distaste for your offensive brand of humor and your social behaviors that always verged on douchebaggery. The way bartenders just knew when we walked into a place that they didn’t like you. It was strange and a bit painful to watch as you thought you were winning them over with your small talk.

And how odd, when I mentioned your name to the people you told me to, they seemed a bit turned off. Or sometimes they didn’t seem to think much of you at all.

You’ve got some fancy ideas, babe, but no one cares. The disciples aren’t coming and you haven’t the discipline to work.

I don’t think you are what you set out to be, what you still pretend to be, even to yourself. And deep down I think maybe you know.

I hope you crawl back into that hole you came from and remember what you are.