visionary loser

an alternative to ennui

Tag Archives: writing

Can I be your sun?

Dear Jack,

I’ve been incredibly unhappy the past little while. Here’s why: I’m scared to talk to you. That’s fucked up. I’m scared and I also don’t know how. I think I’m a good communicator, but with you I’m unsure. You make me feel so bad about myself. I’ve never LOVED myself, but I’ve never been as insecure with myself now as you’ve made me feel. I’m terrified that while reading this you’re either going to laugh at me and trivialize everything I say or you’re going to throw your hands up and be rid of me. I’m so so scared that I don’t even know if I’ll ever show you this…

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I met you at a time in your life when you didn’t want to open your heart again to another person. I’m sorry I forced my way in there and built a nest in your heart with this beautifully naïve notion that I love you and you love me and everything is perfect. Because everything is not perfect. It’s hard to see the beauty in what you’re building when you’re surrounded by wreckage and ugly, negative darkness. I just want you to be happy with me.

——-

Jack, we really need to talk. We need to talk about the fact that I’m unhappy and that I don’t feel like I can talk to you maturely and rationally. You twist my words, make things about you – for once I would just like for you to listen.

You fucked me up. I have never been an anxious person and have never caused harm to myself so drastically until I met you. I’m done being empathetic and kind to those who have watched me suffer and added to my pain.

It’s so hard listening to you talk about Emily. So fucking hard. But I put up with it. At the end of the day, it wouldn’t hurt so bad if you didn’t feel like you needed to hide things about your hanging out together from me. By doing so, you just seem guilty. I will never forget that you “poked” her and brushed it off like it wasn’t a big deal. Because it was to me.

For a year I put up with your abuse – with you demonizing my kindness and the things people genuinely like about me. You made me feel worthless and now I feel worthless.

It sucks watching you bring pretty girl after pretty girl into your home. You are excruciatingly flirty and touchy in my presence and I don’t want to put up with it. You have the audacity to think I’d cheat on you? Boy, I was fucking devoted to you. I would move heaven and earth for you. The sad part is, I still would and I know it would go unnoticed and unappreciated. It’s too little too late to tell me you love me right after making me feel like garbage. That’s abuse – making someone feel trapped and shitty, yet saying you love them and cherish them a mere second later.

I’ve deduced that I was manic the year I met you. Dealing with a break up that felt forced and being pursued by you, all the while you telling me you wanted to be with me, that I was perfect, but fucking someone else. Not just someone else, someone who is your best friend. Someone you continued to fuck and canoodle with even after we were “together”. And I’m the crazy one for not being able to let it go?

I see you one-two times a week and you force me to hang out with people and in a space that is incredibly unhealthy for me and brings up old memories. I can never forget the time you forced us to “hug it out”. It felt like a fucking spectacle for your enjoyment.

I just want to be treated with respect. Stop undervaluing me – cutting off my words, interrupting me, being jealous of every person I talk to. I’m about to fucking snap because of it. And no, I am not on my period.

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Again, is this abuse?

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?

Save for the songs of the birds and the wind in the trees

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.

am i happy now i am now happy.

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’m much better now

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.

 

Is this a realization?

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 apart is when I love you.

The times we are together,

you exhaust

my love.

 

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.

 

Forever.

At Peace

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.

Creative Integrity

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.

 

I guess it’s February

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?

Irony.