We’re both miserable. As we sit here, all pretty, drunk and done with fucking, and the world’s at our feet, but we’re both miserable. There’s something so cliche about it, about being young and in love and so good looking and still hating every minute of it. We listened to too much Nirvana when we were younger, didn’t we?
I think we’re becoming comfortable with each other’s self loathing. It’s permeated the atmosphere of this entire relationship. I could sit inside of it for weeks at a time if I didn’t have to get up and go to work. But I have to go to work.
Neither of us want to be here, but while we’re here, we might as well be in bed together, doing nothing at all, wasting away. There’s something about this that could be romantic. Or strangely beautiful if it were cast slightly in blue light and splayed across some television screen. We languish cinematically, although whenever anyone else sees us I can sniff out their disdain for our utter sloth and resentment for the entire set up of the society we live in.
I would like to break free, but freedom, too, is revolting its own special way. It is easier to die here in his arms than to grab his hand and pull him into some terrific tomorrow. I prefer the terror of what we already have, even if it is slowly pulling us apart and breaking us into pieces.
I write poems about him so that we can feel justified in our codependent self defeat, and I hope no one can see the ugly and the worms that are festering inside us that make us not as elevated as we feel but more among the dirt with the corpses.