(no subject)
In a damp, moldy basement in michigan, my body crumpled and twisted next to davena's, like the clothes and blankets and cigarettes that crumple and twist and try to suffocate us in our sleep; and my head is splitting and I vaguely recall dinner with some wealthy idiot who's in love with davena and kept giving me the 'I want to fuck you' look and pulling my dress up to reveal my bare ass, as I stumbled nauseatingly to the car, collapsing onto the mess of sharp instruments and rotting food that is my backseat, listening to davena kissing him, opening the door to vomit, and then we're home and I'm naked and I pass out and I dream of you and now it's morning I wonder why your best friend tracy hasn't messaged me back, "I wonder if it would be too bold of me to ask you how stephen is doing? I cannot think of anything else and I know I never really was entitled to a place in his life; but I miss him so terribly and just need to hear anything about him. I understand if you don't wish to share information with me though. " But she won't and I know her brief moment of kindness was a ploy to get the information of what mental hospital you were in. I could call, I could call the hospital and ask in a meek voice if a Stephen Rowland is there and when they said yes or no, I could hang up, secure that you're still out there breathing somewhere, though it's no longer in my empty house with blue walls, no longer with your breath reeking of booze that I bought for you, though I knew it would always lead to you leaving a beautiful display of blue and purple bruises all over my small body, no longer with a body so paralyzed with fear and self-contempt that you felt you had no other choice but to take that 7 dollar wal-mart knife out of it's packaging and pull it through the scarred, mutilated flesh on your arms until you realized in a moment of clarity that you would die there, while I was out at denny's with the photographer who's entrancement with me lead him to abandon the artist inside himself and become human in my arms; and I come home after and there you are on the steps, your body covered in blood, the police looking at you questioningly and at me with surprise and empathy; the beauty and the beast, the pixie and the caveman. I was yours and you were mine; we were the same but our emotions traveled through the chaotic mess of bones and flesh differently, I am tragically euphoric, and you're just tragic. Blood patterns cover my floor and I follow them diligently, feel your hysteria in their erratic movements across the hardwood. I wouldn't have cleaned the floors if hunter the photographer hadn't been there. I would have slept in your blood-stained bed and continued to love you though it was destroying me, it is destroying me. And now you, convinced I lied to you, that I gave you nothing, blinded by your pity party approach to life; now you will probably never speak to me again and though I shouldn't miss you I do. Your empty face and your criticism and the way that your touch affected me in a way no one's ever has; it enveloped me in a wispy, deteriorating, albeit beautiful cloud of acceptance and understanding. Why did you destroy it Stephen? it was supposed to be us, smoking and talking, watching movies and isolating, for a year, we had a year...it was supposed to be like the damien rice song I played for you when we drove to nashville, high on klonopin and crying at the new found hostility that contaminated our relationship, And we ignored our others, happy plans for that delicate look upon your face. It was supposed to be everything and now it's nothing, and all I can easily discern of my here and there feelings is that I ache for you so intensely that it hurts.