(no subject)
Uneasy. Unsettled. Untied. We were talking and I was asking questions and he was sighing and ignoring them and I screamed so hard in my head I nearly blacked out, but of course he couldn't hear me and he just sighed again. And the only thing I could think of in all my exhaustion was the hunting knife on the coffee table and if I'd cleaned it recently so I could make a deep enough incision, because since I couldn't scream any louder without him noticing I really really really really needed to bleed.
He's tried it before. I know he has. I've seen it. A single little cat scratch on the rougher part of his arm's exterior. Really. Men can be such wimps. He did it because it was after a fight and he thought I was doing it since I was spending "an awful long time in the bathroom," but believe-you-me, if I were slicing and dicing my arms at that moment I would have probably used a fucking machete (it was a very strange evening). But I didn't 'cause I was too busy screaming in my head.
I never do a half-assed job at anything, even when it comes to masochism. I'm sick enough to crave it. Sitting at the bottom of the bathtub with a safety-less razor hacking away at my skin like a farmer with a scythe, that's my idea of an early Thursday morning. When you do it, you can't really feel anything but a rush like endorphins or something asexually erotic like that where you have to torture your body to feel the high. Sure it gets sore as hell when your sanity kicks in five hours later and you're trying to conceal it with gauze pads and band aids, but who the hell wants to befriend their sanity?
Believe it or not, but the crazy side of me says I should carve the words "ugly whore" across my chest and the sane half of me says I should use that knife to slit my wrists and get it all over with, but I'm not quite sure who to listen to-- the lunatic or the logic machine?
I know what I should do. I should just go in the room (I've exiled myself to the couch right now) wake him up and offer a good fuck just to add to the superficiality of this relationship. He'll probably think it's some romantic make-up moment and whisper the words "I love you" a million times while he's pounding me. I think 21st century man has learned that the L-word is, by unwritten law, retractable and so they feel no shame in throwing it around in exchange for temporary intimacy.
What kind of situation have I gotten myself in to? I've unwittingly lured him in to this committment trap thinking he was just as serious and obsessed as me only to learn that I'm a generic slot for his peg, a piece to keep his motor running. He thinks he's ugly (though truly, he's not) and that he's fortunate to have ended up with any girl (though truly, he's not) and I just happened to be that any girl that could grow on him. And here I thought I was unique. How selfish and incredibly vain of me.
I want to be your lover, your bestfriend, your opponent. I don't want to be your "girlfriend."
He's tried it before. I know he has. I've seen it. A single little cat scratch on the rougher part of his arm's exterior. Really. Men can be such wimps. He did it because it was after a fight and he thought I was doing it since I was spending "an awful long time in the bathroom," but believe-you-me, if I were slicing and dicing my arms at that moment I would have probably used a fucking machete (it was a very strange evening). But I didn't 'cause I was too busy screaming in my head.
I never do a half-assed job at anything, even when it comes to masochism. I'm sick enough to crave it. Sitting at the bottom of the bathtub with a safety-less razor hacking away at my skin like a farmer with a scythe, that's my idea of an early Thursday morning. When you do it, you can't really feel anything but a rush like endorphins or something asexually erotic like that where you have to torture your body to feel the high. Sure it gets sore as hell when your sanity kicks in five hours later and you're trying to conceal it with gauze pads and band aids, but who the hell wants to befriend their sanity?
Believe it or not, but the crazy side of me says I should carve the words "ugly whore" across my chest and the sane half of me says I should use that knife to slit my wrists and get it all over with, but I'm not quite sure who to listen to-- the lunatic or the logic machine?
I know what I should do. I should just go in the room (I've exiled myself to the couch right now) wake him up and offer a good fuck just to add to the superficiality of this relationship. He'll probably think it's some romantic make-up moment and whisper the words "I love you" a million times while he's pounding me. I think 21st century man has learned that the L-word is, by unwritten law, retractable and so they feel no shame in throwing it around in exchange for temporary intimacy.
What kind of situation have I gotten myself in to? I've unwittingly lured him in to this committment trap thinking he was just as serious and obsessed as me only to learn that I'm a generic slot for his peg, a piece to keep his motor running. He thinks he's ugly (though truly, he's not) and that he's fortunate to have ended up with any girl (though truly, he's not) and I just happened to be that any girl that could grow on him. And here I thought I was unique. How selfish and incredibly vain of me.
I want to be your lover, your bestfriend, your opponent. I don't want to be your "girlfriend."