an alternative to ennui
Last night you told me to kill myself.
Last night when someone else needed me more, you demanded my attention.
Last night when I rode in an ambulance to make sure my friend was okay, you made me out to be a selfish asshole.
You accused me of false altruism.
You told me that I only cared about myself.
You premised all this with “I love you”.
You made me feel worthless and disrespected.
You stomped on my words before I could even release them from my mouth.
I can’t believe I’m still with you.
Why haven’t I left.
You break me down so that I have nothing.
That promise you keep whispering in my ear is all I can hope for.
This cage of self doubt and ugliness – depression weighing me down.
I can’t fly anymore.
I don’t want to fly anymore.
Are you happy now?
Just like you.
I’m not good at writing when I’m happy. Maybe it’s because I use it as an emotional release for all the tension and anger I feel. But doesn’t that give such emotions more power and control? Why don’t I write when things are good and blissful and I feel so full and content? Will it dispel these beautiful feelings I feel?
I realize I have no one. I lost my best friend when I ripped out his heart and fed it to the wolf. I keep thinking the wolf is domesticated and won’t hurt me. But the creature snarls every time I get too close. At 12:10AM I have no one but myself. And she’s poor company.
On December 30 you told me you were thinking about me. On January 24 you didn’t recognize my number. On February 10 you messaged me for the last time. It’s June and you don’t answer me. Ever. I wish you could see me. Maybe then you’d care. Sean, I think I’m going crazy.
I’ll never fight with you again. I’ll get a noose tattooed around my neck. The more we fight, the more knots it acquires. So that when it looks tight and thick, I’ll have chocked myself into being good.
March 24, 2017.
I can simplify anything. Overly complicated issues are a product of irrational, emotional people – they cannot see the way amidst the fog. It goes as follows: matters of the heart are complex and emerge from a sad place. You can romanticize longing and that feeling after sex when your worries melt away and all that you see are those brown eyes filled with… something. Begging me to know what that something is. But all I see is sympathy and compassion. Otherwise, everything else is enveloped in a thread-bare blanket. Mislead, I believe in its false protection and warmth. For that blanket is falling apart before my very eyes and I am too stubborn to let it go.
The times we are together,
It hurts to be with you.
Is this what women warn each other about?
Why the feminine is associated with weakness?
Am I weak to want to be comforted and caressed by my abuser?
By the boy I love,
the cause of my cower.
You’ve pushed me to the edge.
Please don’t push my off again –
I barely survived
the first time.
Because if you do,
I will shatter.
Do you ever just want to cry to release it all?
To make the pain of loving someone stop.
So you can be left at peace.
Cause I do every day.
And it never works.
One day –
you will cease these false promises.
One day –
I will stop believing.
One day –
we will make it.
One day –
you will let me grow.
One day –
I will learn to.
One day –
we will be happy in our quiet tranquility.
Creatively jacking each other off,
I saw them demonize the intellectual –
the rational, the sane.
All that matters is Art,
and with that comes suffering
Only from darkness can creativity reign supreme.
The paintbrush caresses the canvas,
The pen strokes the paper,
all trying to get each other off.
These phallic instruments clutched tightly in clenched fists,
Vigorously pumping away
and what comes is —
What fucked up / sad / insecure place does this stem from?
To speak on things which you don’t understand.
Creative merit isn’t doled out by those with rough hands,
Nor by those with degrees,
it comes from people who want to do it.
Almost anything can be Art,
but it all boils down to intent –
why have you the right to express your contemptuousness
on what an individual finds valid and valuable
to tell a story about.
But the thing is, someone does.
No matter how shitty you’re feeling,
How down-trodden and defeated,
Everyone is appreciated by someone –
I want to write about cigarettes. I want to make some profound allusion to my love for him. I want to talk about ashy kisses and yellowed fingertips. Metaphors of fire and smoke. Comparisons to books. Passion and the patriarchy.
But I find myself writing this: “Why do people romanticize cigarettes? They’re cancerous and smelly.”
Is it distasteful to state the obvious?