& Scene

This relationship isn’t working out for him.

Damn, that sucks. He wafts away from me in the night, splayed lonely across my bed as I watch from my perch and reach out and want. I tried to give him the world, and instead we’re back at square one, which is distant and filthy and uncomfortable and full of broken glass.

I wonder what I could have done differently. Nothing. I take a peek inside my heart and am not surprised to realize that there is nothing left inside me that I could possibly give to him. I gave him everything. All the love in my heart. It wasn’t enough. And I knew it. I knew it wouldn’t be enough love for him, but I gave it to him anyways  because, fuck, I had to at least try, right?

Will anything ever work out for him? I don’t think I’ll get to know the answer to that. He’s onto the next one by now, which is a definition of insanity. The next one will be just like me, some haphazard woman dazzled by dick and good looks, tripping and falling her way into would-be sainthood. If only I could have saved him. I am not the one. I look nothing like Jesus’s son, nor do I want to. I just have to accept it now: I am not the child of salvation that I had hoped I was. I am merely another person, here now, gone tomorrow, irrelevant in the echelons of time, but smiling nonetheless.

I can’t take him with me. But if I could, I would carry him across the mountains of time and through the desert of our despair, to some heretofore unseen paradise, a place where my love could be enough for him, and then we would be happy.

Another Weekend in Paradise

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.

No Sympathy for the Devil

I don’t particularly like him anymore, but I like being around him because when I’m with him I’m not me anymore. As much as I don’t like him, I think I like me even less. Or, it’s not that bleak, it’s more that I don’t like being the version of me that everyone always expects me to be 24/7. I’m sick of her, and the only time I don’t have to be her is when I’m alone or when I’m with him. I get to be this other, this nobody. I get to disappear into the background of his life, which is a relief, even if it hurts and even if I hate doing it. But I do it because I get to be a version of me that no one sees, and I don’t have to be alone when I’m her. When I’m her and I’m with him, she’s real, because when I’m alone it feels like a ruse.
He doesn’t see me as the pretty, smart, popular girl that everyone else believes I am. Yeah, I am her, but I’m also more than her. Or, less than her. Sometimes I’m not chatty or witty or winning or dressed in cute outfits and saying cutting yet truthful things in smart conversations. Sometimes I want to shed that skin and be less of the clever feminist activist in short skirts and success I think everyone sees me as and be more of the rabid dog that I feel like on the inside. I want to bark and bite. I want to be less the object of affection and more the receptacle for someone else’s pain and wrath.
I thought I had gotten past that point of hating myself, but I guess I haven’t. I like to bury myself in his problems so I can forget about mine. I would let him totally subsume my identity if I thought I wouldn’t starve to death in a matter of months. I will take his pain, which is wild and unbearable and hard to look at, over mine any day because my pain, which isn’t very remarkable at all, is too familiar to feel comfortable.
He lets me run away from myself, even though I run to somewhere much worse and much darker than myself. I am a bad girl in a bad place with him, but I’d rather be here with him than here alone because if he’s here, this is his fault. I can runaway from him when it’s time for me to fix my problems and ask him why he treated me like shit. When really I know that I treat myself like shit, and he is the medium of my self inflicted wounds, and this is why I love him. Even if I don’t know if I really like him. He lets me be myself at my absolute fucking worst, and he hurts me.
I wish I knew how to stop him from hurting me, but I guess that would mean I’d have to stop wanting to hurt myself. And I’m not sure when that will happen, but it probably won’t happen this week. Or next week. It won’t happen soon enough before I’m sucked in and stuck here permanently with no way out.
He kisses me softly on the neck and whispers, “If you ever leave me, I’ll kill you.”
I’m probably going to leave him soon.

Poor Devil

He wraps his hands around my throat and squeezes. I gasp for air and close my eyes as he fucks me with ferocity. I don’t dare look at his face, look him in the eyes. What I would see there would kill me, but I don’t have to look to know: he’s choking me because he likes to hurt me, not because he loves me. Although he does love me, and, yes, I asked for this, but he likes to hurt me more than he loves me.
I wonder how I got here. No I don’t. I know how I got here. I know why I’m here. I know why I’m enduring this and why I’m also enjoying this. I know who I am.
He is the weapon that I use to hurt myself. The permutations of my self destruction have separated themselves from me and reincarnated themselves as a wholly separate human being, who is towering over me, and smiling as we both think about my life slipping in between his fingers. I can’t even tell who likes hurting me more – me or him. I don’t know what it means to him to slap me around when I’m not expecting it, to grab me by the hair and toss me across the room in between moments of silence. All I know is that it hurts me, and it pleases him.
So I sit in silence and wait for this to pass. For what to pass? I thought that by now I’d have left those suicidal ideations and self pity behind, but for some reason indulging my own sense of worthlessness makes sense. It’s not that it feels good – it just makes sense. Probably because he hurts me the same way my mother hurt me – in that deep, precious way that only a mother or a lover could hurt me. But the pain he gives me – it’s uncanny. If I still talked to my mother, I would run to her and tell her gleefully that I found someone who treats me the way she did, who makes me feel empty in that familiar, familial way. Who doesn’t live up to my expectations, or meet my needs, or fill me with a sense of wonder or love. She would probably smile and nod and ask to meet him.

What Does Love Feel Like?

I am crushed under a cruelty that is only a simulacrum of what must be going on inside his head. I know this from first hand experience – even if he has no filter, there are so many layers of his mind that strip down and soften this entire experience of – of what? It’s not cruelty in the purest sense, but I am starting to sniff out a lack of sympathy. Which I know has nothing to do with me – I’m just here, and it’s not my fault that I am standing downwind of someone in pain. I came here of my own volition, knowing full well that I would encounter more than a few moments of joylessness. Sure, it’s all balanced out by the good times. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t. But moments like this? The spines on the monster that live beneath his skin are starting to poke out. I won’t run away. It must be uncomfortable to be a dragon crammed into human skin. Of course it gets hot in there. So I run to the kitchen and bring him back a cup of water, hoping to ease all of this for just a few seconds. That’s the best I can do. I guess what bothers me is – what are you supposed to do in the face of someone else’s insurmountable pain? Of course I would like to fix it. But I don’t know how. I have asked him many times how can I fix his pain – it is his pain, and he is the only person who could know how to fix his pain, but he still hasn’t told me yet. So instead I am absorbing it in little ways, like tiny glass shards against bare skin. I have to sit in shit if I want to be here with him, and I want to be here with him, so I am sitting in shit and smiling. I don’t want to be anywhere else. I can feel his pain from across the room, across the city, across the state – so I hold myself here, and I do not run away, because running away would be the expected thing to do, and the expected thing to do is boring, and I am not boring. I hold him in the night, and I hope that it helps, and the next morning there are burn marks on my skin that hurt me, too, but I hold him tight anyways.

Rereading Camus

I’m ashamed to admit it, mostly because I’m a writer, but I forgot how to read books. I noticed it about a year ago – I kept on buying interesting looking books, but I wasn’t able to finish a god damn one of them. This is embarrassing. I realized: I’ve forgotten how to do this. My brain can’t complete the task. Reading an entire book, start to finish, is daunting.

I had grown accustomed to scrolling through the news feed and glossing over headlines and photo captions. Entire paragraphs? Occasionally. But more than twenty pages at a time? Oh, fuck no.

So I set out to accomplish a task, and I did it! I recently reread my favorite Camus book The Fall, and, oh, man, talk about revisiting the book that made me into the asshole I am today. There was something thrilling about rereading the words that made me realize that society is a sham and morality is subjective. The first time I read it – what a visceral experience. The second time – there was comfort in the chaos of those underhanded ideas. I remembered why am I the person I am today.

I revel in the beauty of ideas. The ability to corrupt. To break open fresh minds and pour a splendid yet splenetic type of poison into them. I can remember, now, why I want to wrap my hand around the throat of society and watch it suffer in silence as it slowly asphyxiates. Revelation, in its darkest form, is its own kind of ecstasy. Decimation is elevation, and I am ready to burn my way into heaven.

Won’t you come with me?