"come on love, draw your swords"
I give you my heart, or a piece of it at least, on a wooden toothpick. The toothpick gives you a splinter in your tongue so I have no choice but to suck it out. Five years in, we don’t look at each other when we’re talking. We only kiss in a platonic way. I cry at lousy commercials, but not at your mother’s funeral. I do wear a lot of black though. And sometimes you make the eyes at me, like you are seeing me for the first time, like you have forgotten what I look like underneath all the brooding tragedy. Which is, of course, fairly standard. Boring even. I have breasts, yes. A built in radiator between my thighs. Needs bleeding. Another chore you haven’t yet gotten around to. I leave you alone in your study to write and masturbate to still photos of red-headed girls with freckles spread across their noses. I want to be jealous, but I am not. Being jealous would at least mean there’s still something I want to possess in you. Sunday mornings we eat bacon and mushrooms fried in too much butter, get sleepy again at noon. I let you come inside me even though I hate duck-waddling to the bathroom after. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I take my hands to a river and let them float away like paper sailboats. This is not a metaphor, I am just very good at origami. When it’s time for one of us to meet death, the other cries a little, but more out of loneliness than anything else. Even when it’s a bad love, you still find yourself very attached to the company.
#I love you Azra
I was speaking to Lenny yesterday and I said “how come you don’t talk to me anymore?” And she said “because it seems to me like you’re always on some peak of emotion. And near you, I feel flat, I feel static. Like I can’t meet you there.” That sounded like a negative thing to me and just like that, I started crying. Not even little tears, but full blown, bottom lip trembling tears and I told her this and she said “see! That’s fucking beautiful. You’re the entire spectrum of human emotion confined in one being. You’re power.” And there are some conversations that just need to be remembered and this was one of them in case I ever forget that there’s strength in vulnerability and people (including myself) find it beautiful.
And these are the things she said to me that have been echoing in my head ever since:
"There is something inside of you that is more than most people have in them.
And you’ve got all your normal parts, you’ve got all the paying bills and the watching television and the sadness and the grocery shop and everything else.
But then you have something else.”
"You’re who you are regardless of which side of you you choose to show. I’m not intolerant of any parts of you."
I’d forgotten how important this girl is to me. Please try not to do that to the people in your life who understand, who vibrate at the same frequency as you do. You need them.
What do you do when the person you are in love with doesn't love you back?
Leave. Always leave.
Truth is, I don’t want your soft. Your tender. Your merry-go-round type love with all the same scenery. I want to be opened up. Your fingernails at my naval. Your teeth on my throat. On the throb of my pulse. I want you starving. Want you on your last legs. Want you hungry for blood. It’s not pretty. It’s not the kind of thing you tell your friends about. It’s the kind of thing that, once over, you come back normal, as if awakening from a dream in which you have been spoon-fed your every shameful desire. Why? You ask why. You ask why I need this from you, why your mouth-on-mouth, hips-meet-hips is not enough. There is no clear answer. I tell you I want to jump off cliffs with you. I want to find proof of other inhabitable planets. I want to know I’m really here. These are not answers; these are my poor attempts at explanation. These are the closest I can get to verbalizing the need. The thing that beats its fists inside me. That roars. That spits. That makes idle threats. The closest I can get:
I want to forget we are human. And that it is not enough.
#i don't know
I’m not sad about you anymore. I am surprised by this because I still love you a dangerous amount, but I no longer get sad when I see your photographs. You said to me in the car one night, you don’t come with an exit, you come with an exit wound. Sorry about that. I hope your scar tissue took an intriguing shape. I hope none of your lovers kiss you there. There were days I could hardly look at your face without crying, without unfolding into a wilted flower of yearning. Summed up in a word our relationship was only this: want. Too much of it. Enough to leave us both spent every night. Enough to know it was worrying. We did not have the love story we wanted, the one we concocted out of a run-down cottage, a Saint Bernard, and hands that never got lonely. We got instead something mediocre. Something potentially brilliant spoiled by pedestrian things. The squalor kitchen. The jealous friends. The need for reassurance. The readiness with which we grew comfortable with one another. Too comfortable, so that you stopped staring when I would tease my dress up my thighs. We were not meant to be human. We were not meant to suffer these human trials. Remember you wrote me Persephone? Remember how I kept seeing you ghostly? How awful it is to be but human, to succumb to the most trivial of things. To touch you with the TV still on. To make a scene in public. To get drunk and sad and unfaithful. Again and again and again. To repeat all the same mistakes and to continue repeating them until we got bored. Truly bored, not of one another, but of the life that surrounds us. Oh, what I’d do to meet you in another world. One where our souls take possession of our bodies and then each other’s. We would make it if such a place existed. We would have made it. This is why I’m not sad. I know in some parallel universe, if not in all of them but this one, we made it. An entry wound in each of our chests, but no sign of an exit.
"Perhaps we’re not magic anymore. Perhaps we’re just comfortable. We just know our way around one another. We know which wounds to cauterize and which to let bleed."