an alternative to ennui
Tag Archives: thoughts
You’ve driven away my support network. Now you’re all I have. This was intentional, wasn’t it? Breaking off my connections so that I could not escape you. You drove them all away. No one wants to listen to me. I’m the boy who cried wolf. Told them of the abuse, pain, and hurt, with no intention of leaving. I talked in circles driving myself crazy and driving them away. No one wants to play with a broken toy. Now you’re all I have. That’s what you wanted, no? To trap me and keep me so that I could never leave you.
You’re manipulative and controlling, but I’m the crazy one? The emotional one? Just calm down, right? Control yourself. You’ve woven this web of deceits around me and I have no idea how to leave. I don’t even know if I want to leave. It’s abuse – can’t you see? You know a lot about abuse, don’t you? Your earliest memory getting hurled into a fire. The beatings. And I know this, I know that the abused can become the abusive, but how did I not know this? How could I not see that this relationship has broken me. I do not trust. I am anxious. Fearful. Hurt. Crying every day, unable to talk to anyone, but you. But you don’t let me talk. You aren’t there for me.
Am I done?
Sun on my neck,
Warm and comforting.
It was a long winter –
I feel the tension uncurl beneath my shoulders,
Like a shawl I drag it from me
One light quick tug
It floats away.
All worries float away,
Basking in that warm glow.
All the while I think of you.
How great it would be to share this with you,
So I call you.
The magic is disrupted –
Fragmented by the artificial, cold ringing
I immediately regret it
This is mine to cherish alone.
Not alone, but without you
Without another voice
Save for the songs of the birds and the wind in the trees.
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?
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.
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?
What do you think about at 4AM?
Do you think of me?
I just want you to open up to me.
Open your heart, not just your arms.
I feel warm and content in your embrace,
but distance makes my body cold –
that’s when I think of you
and it makes me sad.
I think sadness is what chokes and extinguishes life
and I become a shadow of the person I perform.
I take off my rings to type this story. I prefer typing to writing by hand. My ideas flow through my fingertips pumping away at lettered buttons. All this much faster than a clenched hand cramping from the hard impression of led on paper. My left index finger shakes. I don’t know why. The chances I’ll ever show this to anyone is slim, but it shakes anyway.
When I was fifteen, I went bungee jumping and when they hauled me back over the bridge’s railing, I placed my hands under their noses – palms down – and showed them my bravery. I willed my hands not to move; it was fun, but not scary. I was good. Then again, my left index finger shook. It was probably the adrenaline. Maybe that’s what it is now.
I feel a numbness in my chest. A kind of premature nostalgia. A longing for something that is yet to come. It’s all very romantic and makes my eyes sting and my throat tighten. These plastic trees make it hard for me to swallow.