I watched you walk away a hundred times in my mind. Steeling myself to the inevitable moment when you were gone for good. You said you were leaving. Moving on from this place of broken promises and going to a brighter future. And though I was sad, I understood. You were tied to another and what we have is but ephemeral kisses of the might have been. Had things been different. Had you chosen another Path, one we’d walk together.
But now, you’ve chosen to remain amidst reassurance that things will be different. But they won’t be. Liars lie. Emotional abusers abuse. That won’t change. Unless you’ve chosen paths I’ve advocated and you won’t because they are all dark alleys you wouldn’t travel, nor even loose me down.
So, you’ll stay, so close and ever distant. Because staying is easier than going. Because comfortable is easier than more and scary.
I’ve let you go. But my heart, foolish thing, only thinks that now at least, there may be a chance. But I know, it’s not to be. Much as I wish it otherwise. Love is bastard. Always complicated. Always just beyond reach.
I find myself constantly wishing that I could do more for the people I love. That the bits that I do, the bits I am allowed to do, are not enough. I want to swoop in and help out. Even if that’s just being there.
I can’t decide if that’s egocentric bullshit or some impulse to be the hero or if it comes from genuine compassion. It may come from a place of profound pain. And by helping them, I get to feel connected for a few minutes or hours.
This may be the tragedy of self inspection and healing. Every time there is a plateau and you think you are good, there is another yawning pit from which demons claw out. They may be polite or you may realize that you want nothing more than to start crying and you don’t know why. Only that it’s easier to do that than to be hurt.
I want to help, to fix, because I am broken.
Hopelessly cliche, I am aware.
I’m not looking for a person to fix. Or who will fix me. But I can’t help but feel that their is a person shaped hole in my heart, and if it were filled, this… All of this life and wondering and pain, would be a bit easier.
I miss caring for someone and being cared for in return. I miss giving an order and having carried it out. I miss the joy on my their face when I say, “Good Girl.” I miss the life. The life as I learned it. The submission and compliance. Punishment and reward. Rules made to show care, to demonstrate love, to make each moment better. Never to hold back, always to foster growth. I miss these things, but mostly I miss being loved. I miss loving someone full bore with my slightly crazy heart and being loved in return by theirs.
I miss the lifestyle because it’s the only world I’ve known where love is the most important thing. Where communication rises to the level of my need. Where such is internally enforced by the cultural norms of the lifestyle. Maybe this is my experience because I’m the common denominator, I know that others have experienced abuse, that this lifestyle draws abusers and takers.
I’m not that. I have no way to convince you. You would need to trust me. I have no real point here. I’m 15 days out and I guess I just miss my Morgan. We weren’t perfect, but we had love. I miss her. I miss who I was with her. I miss…
A chorus of notes
slink down the burnt spine
collapsing each into each
the burnt coffee
and stale cigarettes of simple dreams
forgotten in the casual haze
each choice bleeds to another
in the cold minutes
We all see it looming
The Herald of dawn’s breathe turning
The task undone
The words not spoke
Counterpoint, spoke too much
Our regrets pile on pile
Against Dwindling hopes
Until hope is lost
And only the dull rust of the blade
Thrust haphazard into flesh remains
As well to walk into the sun
Rise or Set
Last turn of the wheel
Made by one’s own hand
I am too old to breathe and too old to die
So this leaves me where but between
Lost in a seethe of lie
Strike me from my bones
As morsel eat
Until all consumed
I may pass on
Or give me over to fires embrace
One last or is it first passion
A lover who at least knows her worth
Pick glass out of wounds long closed
Like memories pulling free
So short a life consumed in smallest
A drifter encased in a life of choices fallen to dust
Pause to inhale but is it life or just a slipping of darkness into day
Bound by our shackles forged in persuit
And struck round until freedom is as foreign as love.
Sift through wreckage
Found in huddled
Lost but found but wanting
Soaring in flight
Crashed down to ungentle earth
But at least the fire is out
Or truth its moved inward
Pouring out from fingertips
Warm yourself but
Always pull away
Afraid of burning up
Kindle instead and ignite
In seconds between flight
And the fading
The sound of breaking glass
I noticed this for the first time today. It’s something I knew. But something I just took on faith. That of course that is how I see it. And it’s a pretty simple revelation. If realizing that the thing you thought all along is really the way that you think can be considered revelatory.
So what was it?
Pretty simple. If I am emotionally invested in a person then I just see them. What I mean is this: I notice changes but only so that I can compliment them. I notice changes so that I can cement the image of who they are right now in my heart. But then I discard it. It’s not relevant and on a day to day basis I just see them. If I found them attractive before then I continue to find them attractive. Who they are is the thing I like. Who they are is where my emotional attachment and, as a result, how I perceive them. Why is this just coming to light?
A Acquaintance level 2 and a Friend level 1 both have lost weight recently. Both lost enough to effect their physical appearance. One drastically. But I don’t see it. Or rather it’s not relevant for me to consciencly notice. I saw a side by side comparison of one of them and I thought wow they lost a bunch of weight. But when I see them in person, it doesn’t enter my conscious mind.
So I just don’t see primarily cosmetic differences. I’m happy if they are happy. Who they are hasn’t changed. They are more confident but I always saw them as more than they accepted of themselves. So it’s just good that they are coming to realize that.
I know, it’s odd to see and think like this. What can I say, but that if you are not examining the why’s and how’s of your thinking, then how will you become the self you are trying to be?
Bathe me in the glimmering dark
Sing me your praises of fallen nights
Kiss me your kindness
These dreams I’ve lost to living
These words rasp out a life
Trouble chase but I’m not running
I’ll wield the blade of strife
All I have right now is this violent dark soul sucking need to connect
To be seen, to be known
And I could go out and spread my bleak nihilism
Drown in physical desires
And wake empty
Each night more empty than the last
Each touch just a step away from oblivion
But it’s not what I want
I want that lasting connection
These touch memories linger with me forever
Burning my mind and fill me with yearning
They seem to be so vital
But the night ends
And what is left but the annihilation of self
In the persuit of nothing
I’m tired of fighting for substance and coming up short
I’m tired of finding people who are vital and pushing them away with the raw need that pours out
Don’t try so hard, be yourself. Which fucking one? I’m only comfortable when I know chapter and verse, when I know specifically where we stand and how likely something more, always more, is. Do I just accept that it’s zero?
As fear and anxiety eat away at my calm, as the reality of being alone sets fucking in. Don’t be desperate. I’m fucking drowning, how the fuck else am I supposed to to feel?
Be yourself? My self is a fucking high strung artist who fucked up his past, and doesn’t see a clear way to a viable future. That’s fucking sexy that is.
And truth, just be honest. What percent honest can you fucking handle? Cause no one wants a hundred percent.
Fuck, fuck! FUCK!
I’m just screaming into the void and hoping it matters