Archive for November, 2010

I’ve already told you.

He is essentially the only reason I haven’t done more than just tell you. Yes, the situation is that fucked up. He really is the main reason I haven’t left you, and my attachment to him is one of the main reasons I feel like I should.

It’s not about being happier with him. Whether that’s feasible or not is inapplicable. It has been from the beginning. I will not pursue a romantic future with him like this. I can’t do something like that to him…or to you…or to myself. I can’t act and it’s already bad enough that I’ve broken down to talking. I thought I had to do something. I felt myself tipping into psychosis. I needed help. You couldn’t help me. I asked him. “Why him?” is a very difficult question to address, and I’m sure by now he’d much rather it hadn’t been him. Where I am right now is something that I would understand and forgive of you if we were in each other’s shoes. If I do anything else, I can’t say that honestly anymore. I can’t fathom leaving you three months from your release, because you need me and I want to be here for you. It’s not a “favor”. Please don’t dismiss it as a “favor”. It’s not pity. It’s me caring, wanting, needing, loving. If you left me and you were all I had (which is exactly what happened) I would be devistated not to know you’d be there for me when I need you most (which is exactly what happened). It’s not your fault. Forget fault. There’s no blame. Things have just happened this way. I won’t put you through what I’ve put myself through by waiting. I won’t make you live without me when you say that you need me and want me and love me. I have that choice where you didn’t. It’s not a “favor”.

I love you. That’s not in question. It’s never been in question, but I can tell you that it’s in my mind to leave you anyway. I can tell you what kind of damage waiting has done. I can tell you that love just isn’t enough to protect us. I can tell you what you should expect from me when you’re with me again. I can tell you. It seems fair to tell you, and I have. I have told you…all of this. I feel like shit for doing it, but I would feel worse if I didn’t. You have to know how I feel and what I’m thinking if you have any place in my life. You have to know, even if it’s not consoling. It’s bad timing. I should be supportive. I AM supportive. There’s never a good time for this shit, but…it’s me.

Yes, I’m lonely. Yes, he is perfectly capable of making me happy. Yes, I care about him. Yes, I want to be happy. Yes, I’m attracted to him. I’ve told you all of this. Whether you’ve been taking it in seriously or not is something I can’t say. I don’t know. I’ve told him.

I know that I’m hurting him.

It’s not about being with him. I will never be with him. He’s stronger than me. He won’t let me.

I’m using that. I’m using his strength…and that’s not okay. It’s not okay. He’s an amazing guy, and simply put: I’d love to be what he needs instead of taking what I need from him…because I don’t believe in this anymore. I can’t believe in something that’s driven me to do what I’ve done to another person.

Maybe love is enough, but love is not worth this.
I can’t hurt people for the sake of my own happiness.

It’s not fear.
I’m not afraid.

It’s agony in knowing that my love hurts anyone caught up enough to love me in return.

He says he can’t return my sentiments.

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the last files

Posted: November 30, 2010 in hidden admonishment

I was with you when I started to admit to myself for the very first time…that…I want to live.

It’s the most selfish thing I’ve ever experienced, and it’s been the hardest most rewarding struggle.

That’s not what I wanted before; not in the same sense. I met a different kind of living while pulling the strings to unravel. I wanted to live only in the sense that I wanted to stop waiting for life to happen. Stop. And I threw all regard for myself to the wind. I was searching for someone else to find a use for me, and that person could have been anyone and could have done anything. I would have not only let anyone in, but given everything I had.

I did.

I turned my back on everything I was or had. I was blind to everything I’d been taught to value. Anyone could have done anything to reshape me into whatever was wanted, and I would have cherished fulfilling the prescribed role. Just tell me who to be, how to be, what to say, how to do it. How do you want me to do it? I remember telling him that I couldn’t be what he wanted. I didn’t have…I didn’t know…

Break me. Rape me. Hit me. Fuck me harder. Fuck me harder!

Don’t kiss me. Don’t tell me you love me.

I miss you.
I’m not allowed in your life, and I apologize for this intrusion, but you helped me find a more beautiful way to try to live mine.
I wish I didn’t have to do it without you…

not because I can’t

She sat in a booth near a window, while she gracefully munched a fancy, cold sandwich of some sort.
I sat down.
Late.
I asked for a cup of hot water, and the waitress spat up flak.
Habits.
“Listen, I’ll pay for tea. If you feel obligated to waste it, bring me the bag separate from the water, but I just want the water.”
She looked at me like I was crazy; disheveled from work in plain, ill-fitting clothes across from a well manicured, proper woman who eats modest lunches and orders syrupy, bubbly concoctions to wash them down.
When the waitress left to tell the others about the crackpot in the booth over here, the woman I was meeting during my lunch hour spoke.
“Do you remember that girl that I had you work with a few times?”
I stared blankly.
“That little bit of a thing,” she made a strange gesture with her hand in the air, “What was her name?”
I clawed through the recesses of my mind and came across a face.
“Amber…or Ashley? Amber maybe?” I thought about the girl who killed herself at my college. No one could remember her fucking name either, and it’s funny how those fragile, little anorexic girls really do acquire an astonishing level of invisibility in retrospect. I remember her elbows…
“Hmm…Amber, maybe.” She took a bite of her sandwich, and I waited. “How would you feel about a female client?”
I’ve never had a female client. “Indifferent,” was my answer and my attitude. What difference does it make? Her name was Kaitlyn…the girl that went to the same college I did. What difference does it make?
“Good,” and the woman wrapped a smile around the rim of her soda glass.
Or is it “pop” here?
The waitress came with a cup of hot water, set it down and asked if everything was all right with my companion’s meal.
“Erin,” I interrupted the niceties in front of me. Both of them looked at me then, and I stared into my cup of water in a saucer on the table. “Her name was Erin,” I muttered. The girl that I’d worked with a few times. Her name was Erin, although…what difference did that make?
“Who?”
“Amber or Ashley. Her name was Erin.”
“Oh…” Her response was flat and uninterested. The waitress set the bill down. I noticed that I was not charged for the water. Erin is a funny name. I always think of “Aaron” before “Erin” and get my genders confused. It’s not because I know any more of one than the other.
“I should be going,” I spat in apology for killing the business at hand with silly things like names attached to elbows. I placed a few bills under my untouched cup of hot water and stood.
“I’ll have something lined up for you by the weekend,” she told me without looking up from her purse. In a proper universe, I would have dashed the hot liquid into her penciled in face.

If I could drink peanut butter; if I could choke the chunky shit down without any sort of diluting, I think that would sum up how I feel about you right now. I want to hate you so much that it’s worse than if I really could just fucking hate you.

You’re not peanut butter.
I don’t hate you.

I don’t even really hate myself anymore.

You lied to me.

Posted: November 28, 2010 in transliteration
Tags: , ,

Papers are stacked to a height ending mid-thigh in piles that gently lean against each other to support the weight of their combined content. Not a single sheet has yet been deemed trash, although I cull and groom the mass regularly. The stacks line the walls and come out to visit me halfway across the room where structure dwindles and the pages spill haphazardly into my breathing space to remind me…

and I’ve lost my place.

self-censorship

Posted: November 26, 2010 in Uncategorized
Tags: , ,

I saw your picture in the paper that I wedged into the corner to catch shit and piss. It wasn’t your picture. No, but it was a picture you picked up somewhere. Now I know where. I picked up one of your words, and I studied it from odd angles. The bus stops right outside my door. No, it stops on the other side of four lanes of traffic that sit right outside my door. I watch it back up during rush hour, and I tell myself it’s okay to use your pretentious little word that’s quickly spread through the shit like wildfire…but only because I was talking about you.

I think I’ll go remove it now.

People think I’m an artist.

Posted: November 25, 2010 in hidden admonishment
Tags:

I sit in my room surrounded by shit. I sleep on the floor amidst my own filth. I rarely bother to cook a meal or do my laundry, and I sit on my computer doing nothing all day. I don’t read the news. I don’t play games. I don’t pursue interests. I sit in my email accounts most of the time wishing that someone cared enough to talk to me. I think about you. There’s nothing stellar about you. You’re an asshole who writes crappy little digs and works at a shit job. Your work was never that great. You’re not all that attractive or insightful. You watch stupid little art films and read annoying books. You drop names to sound more informed, because you don’t want to take ownership of your thoughts if they’ve been thought by someone who someone else might find more credible and important. You can be both then by your own associations.

Yeah, I think about myself.

I haven’t done anything with my life. I haven’t done anything at all. I don’t even paint anymore. My writing is all shit. I work shit jobs. I live with shit people. I stay in my room that I don’t even bother to clean…and I worry.

What if I can’t get past this? What if I never paint anything again? What if I never find a reason to write anything beyond a few boring “I” statements about my shitty mood regarding my shitty life? What if I really am stupid and ugly and awkward and pathetic and there’s nothing else at all? I can’t seem to get my shit together. I can’t seem to see anything but shit with no sense of gathering it into concentrated shitty failure.

I crawled out of my room to go back to work for the second part of my shit split shift day, and I only go to my job to attempt to pay my bills; at least some of them. My housemate was out in the living room with the TV blaring and two men that always try to talk to me as much as she does. Her life is mine. She lives in the same shitty place and works the same sort of shitty job. Actually, her shitty job is too good for me. Her room is clean. She has dogs and cigarettes and men. Her life is much better than mine, because while it’s still rather shitty, she’s at home with her’s and lives it.

I have a stack of really old paintings in the hall that I’ve been meaning to take out to the shed to make room in my studio space for one project that I’m determined must get…started? The old paintings stack up in the hall, but it’s been raining and I’m depressed and have no ambition to clean the other room up and make it into a functional space. If I did, it would have happened months ago. My housemate’s guests commented on how good the paintings were, and I responded quite honestly that they weren’t. They’re crap. They’re complete and utter shit. They’re all turned to the wall so that no one has to look at them. They’re not even paintings. Their assignments and studies and aborted dreams. They’re loathsome things, but these people disagreed with me. Sigh…I wish I could see what they see, but I haven’t done anything in years. I didn’t even write a thesis paper to graduate. I put nothing but unfinished work in my gallery space, and I haven’t even done that much since my release. I haven’t had so much as a spark of genuine interest since before getting “sick” my first time through Sophomore year.

I wish I would just stop struggling if whatever I thought I had is already dead. Why do I stay here if I won’t even move in? Why did I come all this way? Why do I keep all this stuff I don’t even unpack? Why don’t I sell it? Why don’t I live somewhere cheaper if I really want to go back to school? What makes me think I want to go back? What difference will math make? What about Russia?

I can’t even find simple reasons to shower and eat…but it’s not apathy. It’s worse. It’s so much worse.

I’m supposed to be my own cheerleader.
I’m supposed to interact with like minded imps that will cheer for me when I’m tired.
I’m supposed to gather some form of satisfaction from marketing my soul.
I’m supposed to believe I have one.

I’m supposed to gain acceptance.
I’m supposed to make it happen.
I’m supposed to play the games and find them fun.
I’m supposed to give a shit what you think.

I’m supposed to care if you give a shit what I think.
I’m supposed to appear humble but happy.
I’m supposed to spend time set aside specifically mandated for family.
I’m supposed to make a name for myself.

I’m supposed to be able to make up my damned mind.
I’m supposed to be able to set this shit aside.
I’m supposed to keep trying to be someone I’m not.
I’m supposed to fucking tell you what you want to hear.

Well, I fucking want you to fail, you smug little shit.
You’re the one that replaced me, so what I’m supposed to do

no longer applies.