He says he loves me and I tell him we should take it one day at a time.
But if I could love anyone, it would be no one else but him.
Clear nights like this give a fantastic reminder that there are bigger voids in the universe then the ones that resides inside of us, far more complex things then the social difficulties we place upon ourselves, andeven if we feel a disconnectwith the rest of the world we’re probably always connected in some way by a tendril of slithering dark matterpassing from us into them.
He likes to lie there next to me on the hammock while I watch the sky above us. Sometimes I’ll take a glance at him when I know he isn’t looking at me and other times when I know he is.There are many moments like this between us where I just get the sudden urge to kiss him and do without asking. He obliges me and smiles while he shakes his head. I tilt mine because he is so intriguing and I have no idea why because he’s just flesh and blood. Just flesh and blood with a conscious that relates to seven billion other people in the world.
"It’s always weird when you do that. Really adorable but weird, haha."
"When you do that head puppy tilt thing while you’re staring at me. It almost makes me feel like I’m some alien creature and you’re a mad scientist just observing me."
"But you are alien to me."
I don’t understand you. You confuse me and perplex me.
I have no idea what you want from me, if you even want anything.
He just takes my hand and then we settle into quiet.He understands the need for silence and empty space more than anyone else I’ve ever known and quells all of the turmoil filled thoughts by rubbing the small of my back in slow rotations. I want to tell him all of the bad things but I don’t know how. I want to tell him all of the strange things I feel but I don’t think I should. I can’t tell him, but I can try to show him.
And so I’ll put my head on his chest instead, my hand on his heart and just listen to the gentle thudding. I can imagine it’s the same beat as the universe expanding itself.Or a galaxy breeding life into new stars, slowly depleting and then recycling all of it’s dust to fuel the burning.Maybe even the sound emitted from the event horizon of a black hole slowly pulling and ripping apart all of its’ surroundings.
You could give me life and then create chaos from nothing.
I’ll never be good enough to hold you and you’ll slip from me, won’t you?
He tickles me. Breaks the quiet reverie and I squeal before he stops, lying on top of me. He nuzzles his head in the crook of my neck and I tingle while looking at the pinpoints of magnificent light flickering in the night. I love the heaviness of his chest on mine. How is it so comfortable here in this dark with him but not with anyone else before?
"…You’re alien to me too."
"But why? I’m almost always honest with everything." The half lie slips out easily.
"You’re not. I can see you, you know. You see everyone else and they don’t see you, but I do."
"Okay. Maybe you do." If anyone could it would be this man, right here who indulges in all of the facets that create me and yet still grounds me from gravitating to far up into separate moons and planets. "I’ll always be here for you." No he won’t. But I can enjoy him while he is.
I think I could love him. If I could have more time, just stay here a little bit longer. I just want to show you everything in the universe.
Never have I wanted anything more than to tear the jugular of your throat to feel the pulses that make you real. To feel the flow of liquid rushing. to trace the paths of all the dark veins stretching in chaos underneath the pale paper of your skin, the only thing that was ever stable.
I remember he said something about feeling like how all of his bones were breaking at once.That they were constantly snapping in two and then mending themselves in grotesque positions. Fixed but never again the same, healed but always feeling a shadow of pain.
If I could have been like her than I wouldn't have been like me
but maybe that was the intended action anyway and I may have been wasting my time, seeking an identity to fill a void when all along, the person that I was supposed to be was exactly like her. Her, being the quintessential girl. Meaning, the girl who cares for her hair and society, her social status and the people below, above, or beside her. With tittering laughs and positively perfect everything, it would have been easy to fill in her shoes. Far more, than my own at least because with her I wouldn’t have to find new things, discreet things about myself. Everything would be in light rather than in secret as I have always kept it. There would be nothing to fill, no soul that is constantly empty because everything would have already been accounted for. I would be in her shoes, not mine. That would have been too easy.
And because it would have been too easy, I set off for me and along the way accumulated a large number of suicide notes. It was shocking to say the least, the number itself, the scratch-offs, and the balled up pieces of paper that were unfinished and left so. All stating the same message. The void. The hole. The chasm. The abyss. The mere desolation. All very typical things in words but when felt, it’s real. The only thing that seems to be real when looking upon the faces of others, with their strained smiles and squinted eyes. It was as if all the men were made up of mice and the women made of snakes. Slithering, squeaking, a mass of unreality. A fantasy. A dream. And the only thing honest was me, my existence. Everything else was a lie, a lie that continued on, correction, continues on forever. With the men and their beady eyes and the women with their flicking tongues. If I could have been her, I wouldn’t have needed to see the difference between these planes. If I could have been her, I wouldn’t have bothered stumbling upon this realization. If I could have been anyone else besides someone like me, I wouldn’t have to live in a lie. The notes wouldn’t have been born into existence. They wouldn’t haunt me. Yet continue to haunt me, they do because I am not her nor will I ever be anything like her because any semblance to her was destroyed a long time ago. She is an image. Nothing tangible. Nothing real. Nothing like me.
I have multiple recurring figures in my dreams, all of whom I don’t think I’ve ever met personally. In fact, I am positively sure I have never met any of the men that I have encountered so intimately in waking life and for that I’m grateful. I’m not sure what I would do if I were to meet any of these figures because they all represent some part of me. The masochistic, the sadistic, the magnanimous, the omniscient. Parts I’ve never talked about and others that are in clear view. They are the men I want in different, extreme measures. This is just Tom and Adam.
Tom is a lanky fellow, joints protruding, tall with legs that seem to stretch forever. He has lengthy black hair and blue eyes with an aristocrat’s nose. He’s so pale and when I look at him, it always feels like I’m looking at a ghost. I see him, I can feel him, but he still doesn’t seem real. He’s the guide of a world I’ll never understand. He tells me what I should do when I’m confused and disappears when he’s no longer needed. Sometimes I have to save him from himself and I will never forget the image of his body mangled with blood written across his chest proclaiming his freedom. I love him in a strange way. It’s desperate and it’s aching. He knows me for who I am, encompassing every part of my mind. He’s patient. He’s understanding. He knows my pain because he IS it. He tries to heal himself and in doing so he heals me. Every time I save him, I know I’ve saved a part of myself. I need Tom. He grounds me into reality while at once giving way to my fantasies and whims and dreams. He brings me far off to adventure and he always me brings back home. He sings to me, so sweetly and creates poetry. Words I never remember but feel all the same. He never touches me and the one instance I made contact with his skin was when I was cradling him in my arms as he was dying before I woke up.
Adam frightens me and excites me. He beats me into a bloody carcass and whenever I run away, I always find myself back to him. Just the other night he whispered to me “You always come back.” And I do. No matter how ragged I get, I find myself back in the same room with him. He’s lean but muscled and angry all the time. His eyes are green and his dark hair is cropped short, military style. He is a reminder of the self hatred I have. Instead of attempting to heal me, he continues to fester it. Calling me worthless, dirty, and tainted. He treats me like how I sometimes feel I should be treated. That darker part of me. The suicidal, the self-harming. And I love this. I hate Adam but I love the way he treats me in these dreams because this is exactly what I deserve. I am nothing and he feeds on this. When I see him, it makes me smile because I know it’ll always end badly and I can’t help the feeling of elation. He is NOTHING like Tom. He is the exact opposite and whenever I think of him, I cry. There are no serene smiles like Tom, just pain and it makes me feel so fucking good. The adrenaline, the headiness, it’s so strange. No one will ever understand my obsession with Adam.
The dreams between these two men are jarringly different. While one thrives on color, the other has a simple blocky monotone backdrop. While one tries to save me, the other one is hellbent on my demise. And I love it so profoundly in equal measures, it’s sickening to want to be beaten and then soothed. To be neglected and then cared for. I need something wrong, something right, I don’t know.