Rehab XXXIII-XXXIV(started on 3.7.08) : love is a verb here in my room
sometimes we remind me of magnets. both negative ends being pushed toward each other, rubbing without ever touching, feeling between us without being near one another at all, and at the same time pushed apart.
i wouldn't call these arguments by any standard. there was no anger.
there was no real feeling at all.
these times make me sit and stare and nothing more. and i am empty.
it takes hours
days
weeks
months to come back from these not-arguments sometimes.
and now i smell my mother's perfume.
she fucked sydney today.
i guess that's why Uncle J came over. I thought it was to smoke and talk and laugh and drink and shit but no, they were dropping sydney off so he could fuck my mom and then they came to get him and i folded inside myself far away and christina and mark talked to me, and i thought i was talking back but no, it was in my head- i was only thinking responses. they never touched my tongue at all and when i realized it i laughed a little to make it less like i was ignoring them.
i slept on my side in mark's car rewinding the same part of Sick Sad Little World over and over again. eyes open, blink, eyes closed, listen, drift, blink, drift, (i heard something about ex, hey, who's talking about that? what?) drift. i touched my nipples for a second. i didn't feel it.
i thought of my mother.
i realized that i will never be a good lover maybe
sex to me is no longer a question of passion and sweet words and kisses and caresses. it's hurt and be hurt while playing dice with disease. vulnerability and violation- who's got control here? me or you? i think it's me but you're only letting me think that, oh yes, you're entirely in control and taking taking taking all these parts of me away and i'll never get them back so please just make this a good one so i'll sleep tonight. so i'll dream and touch myself and think the seeping things are something good.
i always imagine sex with tears.
like you can't fuck somebody without crying. without silently acknowledging that you are a fucked up shell of a person and they know you are and they use it to hurt you and that hurt is what gives you pleasure. that is what sex is and that's why you're supposed to cry. there's no such thing in my head anymore as sex for the sake of pleasure and fulfillment and all that bullshit.
i'll never know, will i?
sex is sick.
someday maybe if i'm lucky all these feelings, the desires, the ugly lust will just die.
i'll be a shell of nothingness, yes, but i will be safe from and safe for you, for one thing.
i'll be safe.
hidden.
because without the knowledge that i desire or that i am desired somehow whole pieces of me seem deflated, as if i am a creation merely of sex and dirt and music notes. if you don't make dirty jokes in a crowd people ignore you. you talk about politics or poetry and nobody gives a shit, but you mention the best blowjob you ever got and you're motherfucking Prince William. you're royalty. The Dalai Lama couldn't touch you then- that's America, baby. sex, lies, more lies and more sex.
or is that just what my life/my head is made up of?
is that possible for a virgin?
do you know why i'm a virgin? it's because i'm filthy inside.
undesirable.
i never gave a shit about that stupid "save yourself for marriage" bullshit. Why should you save the one thing that truly belongs to you for somebody who a) won't appreciate it at all and b) will probably leave as soon as you give it to them and then you're left looking like a fucking fool still dragging around the pieces of your innocence trying to glue them back together like dead horses could fly you back to the day before the first night? (or just the minute before. let's not pretend sex is a nighttime thing.)
i don't want this. i don't want to be sick at the thought of sex. it was the only thing i really looked forward to for years, the only sure thing because hey, you might not get into the college you want, you might not last at the college you go to, you might not stay married or get/keep a good job, you might not do this or see that or go there or live here or any of that, but no matter what fails you there will always be some sleazy hornball in a back alley waiting to get his rocks off, waiting to get her nightly score, come hell or high water.
good things die.
i'm learning that slowly.
(this is frightening, this rapid backslide i'm enduring, straight back to the heart of the chrysalis and just when i'd broken it. such is my life: one step forward, one leap back to where i started with my arms thrown out and my feet splayed.)
oh, honestly.
five minutes each week are devoted to considering that you might give up on me.
the other (84600/60 *6) are spent convincing myself that maybe i'm not damaged. maybe i'm not utterly and totally fucked up.
maybe.
and then Her comes and she is laughing, pointing again to where i messed up with you this time ("look at how mean you were today" "you didn't even kiss him or hug him today. he probably feels hurt." "you forgot to ask about his day. again.") god...i am a horrible boyfriend
i'm shrinking and folding so small inside my body
i can hardly feel myself sometimes
i'm not here
that's how it is, i'm not here. i'm covered in bones and dust and struggling hopes and i cannot break free.
will i destroy myself in the process of trying to heal myself? is that why i can't contemplate a future beyond the next month anymore?
is all this healing myself a load of bullshit? will i always just be a fucked up kid?
will you have to spend your life picking me back up off the floor after i go to pieces yet again?
by now you could write a book: Life With the Fuckup. or something.
jesus fucking christ
i'm so angry at myself.
but hell.
i don't have any reason not to be.
you know, i feel at this moment like nothing will ever change. nothing. promises to change, plans and hopes to change, and nothing else. no change at all. bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.
then what the fuck is the point?
easy.
i'm still in love with you and it keeps me going even when i don't feel it.
in ten years will you still love me like you do right this minute?
i wouldn't call these arguments by any standard. there was no anger.
there was no real feeling at all.
these times make me sit and stare and nothing more. and i am empty.
it takes hours
days
weeks
months to come back from these not-arguments sometimes.
and now i smell my mother's perfume.
she fucked sydney today.
i guess that's why Uncle J came over. I thought it was to smoke and talk and laugh and drink and shit but no, they were dropping sydney off so he could fuck my mom and then they came to get him and i folded inside myself far away and christina and mark talked to me, and i thought i was talking back but no, it was in my head- i was only thinking responses. they never touched my tongue at all and when i realized it i laughed a little to make it less like i was ignoring them.
i slept on my side in mark's car rewinding the same part of Sick Sad Little World over and over again. eyes open, blink, eyes closed, listen, drift, blink, drift, (i heard something about ex, hey, who's talking about that? what?) drift. i touched my nipples for a second. i didn't feel it.
i thought of my mother.
i realized that i will never be a good lover maybe
sex to me is no longer a question of passion and sweet words and kisses and caresses. it's hurt and be hurt while playing dice with disease. vulnerability and violation- who's got control here? me or you? i think it's me but you're only letting me think that, oh yes, you're entirely in control and taking taking taking all these parts of me away and i'll never get them back so please just make this a good one so i'll sleep tonight. so i'll dream and touch myself and think the seeping things are something good.
i always imagine sex with tears.
like you can't fuck somebody without crying. without silently acknowledging that you are a fucked up shell of a person and they know you are and they use it to hurt you and that hurt is what gives you pleasure. that is what sex is and that's why you're supposed to cry. there's no such thing in my head anymore as sex for the sake of pleasure and fulfillment and all that bullshit.
i'll never know, will i?
sex is sick.
someday maybe if i'm lucky all these feelings, the desires, the ugly lust will just die.
i'll be a shell of nothingness, yes, but i will be safe from and safe for you, for one thing.
i'll be safe.
hidden.
because without the knowledge that i desire or that i am desired somehow whole pieces of me seem deflated, as if i am a creation merely of sex and dirt and music notes. if you don't make dirty jokes in a crowd people ignore you. you talk about politics or poetry and nobody gives a shit, but you mention the best blowjob you ever got and you're motherfucking Prince William. you're royalty. The Dalai Lama couldn't touch you then- that's America, baby. sex, lies, more lies and more sex.
or is that just what my life/my head is made up of?
is that possible for a virgin?
do you know why i'm a virgin? it's because i'm filthy inside.
undesirable.
i never gave a shit about that stupid "save yourself for marriage" bullshit. Why should you save the one thing that truly belongs to you for somebody who a) won't appreciate it at all and b) will probably leave as soon as you give it to them and then you're left looking like a fucking fool still dragging around the pieces of your innocence trying to glue them back together like dead horses could fly you back to the day before the first night? (or just the minute before. let's not pretend sex is a nighttime thing.)
i don't want this. i don't want to be sick at the thought of sex. it was the only thing i really looked forward to for years, the only sure thing because hey, you might not get into the college you want, you might not last at the college you go to, you might not stay married or get/keep a good job, you might not do this or see that or go there or live here or any of that, but no matter what fails you there will always be some sleazy hornball in a back alley waiting to get his rocks off, waiting to get her nightly score, come hell or high water.
good things die.
i'm learning that slowly.
(this is frightening, this rapid backslide i'm enduring, straight back to the heart of the chrysalis and just when i'd broken it. such is my life: one step forward, one leap back to where i started with my arms thrown out and my feet splayed.)
oh, honestly.
five minutes each week are devoted to considering that you might give up on me.
the other (84600/60 *6) are spent convincing myself that maybe i'm not damaged. maybe i'm not utterly and totally fucked up.
maybe.
and then Her comes and she is laughing, pointing again to where i messed up with you this time ("look at how mean you were today" "you didn't even kiss him or hug him today. he probably feels hurt." "you forgot to ask about his day. again.") god...i am a horrible boyfriend
i'm shrinking and folding so small inside my body
i can hardly feel myself sometimes
i'm not here
that's how it is, i'm not here. i'm covered in bones and dust and struggling hopes and i cannot break free.
will i destroy myself in the process of trying to heal myself? is that why i can't contemplate a future beyond the next month anymore?
is all this healing myself a load of bullshit? will i always just be a fucked up kid?
will you have to spend your life picking me back up off the floor after i go to pieces yet again?
by now you could write a book: Life With the Fuckup. or something.
jesus fucking christ
i'm so angry at myself.
but hell.
i don't have any reason not to be.
you know, i feel at this moment like nothing will ever change. nothing. promises to change, plans and hopes to change, and nothing else. no change at all. bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.
then what the fuck is the point?
easy.
i'm still in love with you and it keeps me going even when i don't feel it.
in ten years will you still love me like you do right this minute?