Endurance Olympics.
So if it’s me.
So if it’s me
So if it’s me and I can’t get rid of me
I have to stay here?
I wish I could vomit up my heart and suffocate you with it. I wish I could stuff it down your throat and watch you gasp for air as it fills your soft esophagus. I don’t have a dick. I can’t fuck you down there. But my god I would love to. I would love to feel your insides with the most tender part of me.
Every man I ever loved wanted to be me. My father too. He hated me. I was everything he couldn’t be and moved in every way he wish he could. I sway minds so easily, so quickly, so relentlessly it spawns disgust. You are inferior. So you must snuff me.
I live with this. I never really liked any man. In the most Freudian way possible I wanted to kill every one of them and devour their false power. I am better than you. I am better than you.
Getting fucked as a woman reminds you of this. They grab your neck, they bite. Where did this come from? No we are not animals. You are consciousness in its purest form. You are the watcher of everything outside of you. You sit back in a shell deep within your psyche and someone else talks to you. Say hello to yourself right now. Do you hear that?
Why does that person tell you to choke and thrust harder?
Where is the adoration? I never even fucked the love of my life. I saw him maybe twice. And he’s an idiot too. He tries to emulate what I have from being fucked so hard, he fucks the world and still can’t contain it. I know everything. I see through you.
There is no such thing as human connection. You are always so busy telling yourself your own story that you can’t give a fuck about feeling what the person in front of you feels. Imagine that? Not feeling better than but actually being better than? Then you would feel like me. Wouldn’t you? Then you wouldn’t need to fuck empty holes anymore.
It’s implemented, it’s wasteful. It’s simple. It’s all void. All of the movements. All of the friction. All of the fornicating.
You sit alone inside of yourself not knowing yourself. You love it. It is easier to be sad this way. You pathetic spore.
I sit waiting, wanting to be destroyed.
Looking for every way to give the responsibility of my demise to someone else.
I act as if I want to be walked like a dog. As if I want to drip dry in the desire of your gaze. I only seem this way. You will never know what I actually am. You can only gaze at me.
You can not be inside of me.
My gaze searches also for frescos and statues and doesn’t rest and my mind doesn’t rest and my body doesn’t rest and my soul doesn’t rest.
Not because I am faking it. Not because it feels like it is all catching up.
No.
Mine stirs in wave pools of longing for something better than me.
-A
The words. So many words. My mind bends into itself and still I find none.
I can find them and I am not searching for them.
Like no one is searching for me.
I am sure that people love me
my worth doesn’t come from that fact.
So I glide. To glide is not to lift each leg and then touch ground. Gliding is skating just above reality. Ghosts never walk.
My world is muted static and
Hands rubber and heavy touch nothing, they graze.
I make zero contact.
so no one calls.
And I don’t go.
The drain that is this soul.
Swallows up all the light sprayed at it.
But it doesn’t light up.
One has to self illuminate.
And I don’t like that.
Because I want to take your light and make it mine.
I just want to go somewhere quiet.
I had a draft saved and that’s all it said.
I think about how long I haven’t been living while being too afraid to die.
Writing into the void is not something that soothes me anymore. I used to be quite comfortable sitting in my misery and sharing it.
Now I simply explain I’m mentally ill and need serious help. Even if that help must come from myself. I need help. I won’t romanticize that.
There is actually nothing to romanticize.
I’ve said I love you to everyone I didn’t love.
I’ve lived lives behind closed doors I pray my ancestors don’t see.
I lost god.
I don’t think god lost me but I lost it.
I hit this scary part today. Like being right in the middle of purgatory or release.
Couldn’t tell you which way I landed.
I feel every single lingering affect I have on people and can predict exactly what they will do to me.
I feel how my absence hurts people that really want me there. I didn’t see my mother for Mother’s Day. Not because I couldn’t but because I drank myself into such an abyss the night prior that at 6:30pm when my family was sitting down for dinner I was still vomiting in my bath tub. For 3 days prior I knew I wasn’t making it to that dinner.
Still I could tell you exactly what you need to do in your life to make you happy. And so they still call. Not because they can do anything for me or care to; but because I am the one person who “can talk to them like that.”
It’s a gift surely I have not learned to master.
I am so fucking connected to human consciousness I cannot separate what I feel from what someone is projecting or something I will feel in the future.
It’s like I’m living every feeling and variable of my past, current and future self so much so that I can not settle on a tone.
So I am quiet now.
If I could say it rather simply right to you
it was that I felt you in the moon.
As it shone down on my bones
piercing them cold light on cold thighs
The insides of cathedrals,
looking up you realize
that they too have skeletal systems.
Drying off while under the moon, even when the temperature is high enough,
differs from drying off in the gleaming sun.
My skin never warms
it isn’t because this medicine makes me cold blooded.
I don’t wash myself after seeing you
until i absolutely must. I like the smell
on all of the parts
that you leave warm.