I long for the feel of my blades as they are all I can find to replace your teeth on my flesh. That rough jaggedness that envelops me in comfort like a vintage blanket. I scar a little bit more each day you are gone and when I don't hear from you I tear up old wounds. My knee is covered in lines and my new set of knives are due to arrive. I'm not far gone enough to attempt to end it like I have been in the past, but you must appreciate that in order for me to be the ongoing drip upon your defensive wall you cannot dam the river. And this communication breakdown has stopped the flow completely. Are you so afraid that you would suffer a drought rather than risk tasting the water?
Listen: with nearly anyone else, at least anyone else I've met in my life thus far, I wouldn't even be willing to try like I am here. I would do what I've always only done in this situation, cling to your bosom with any label you'll accept like barnacles on a ship's bow; using you purely as transportation to take me to my next illogical clingy attachment. But today I know what I'm doing. Today I acknowledge my own inabilities and try to overcome them. But without any participation from you whatsoever, I'm merely talking to myself.
Who am I kidding? That's what I'm doing right now. It's therapeutic and even cathartic to let all of this loose onto paper, or even into text on a glaring screen like I do now at 4:30 in the morning. I couldn't sleep. I ran out of xanax and now all I can do is lie there running into the corners of my mind searching for figures hiding in the shadows. Women who haunt me long after they're gone. And you, that constant drumbeat of concern, now burdened with my rage and blood-lust, piggybacking on your image as they are want to do. I am never able to understand much about myself until it is too late. This is probably another one of those situations. But I'm trying real hard to climb on up into that so called mind of mine and take a look around. I know this much: Whatever ends are to come of this chaos, for a time we cared for each other. I still care for you. I've no way of knowing if the opposite is true. But, I was able to for so long, not only silence the violence but satisfy it too.
Around you, sharing our problems the way we did, it shied away in good company. It is only now that we lack your presence that that side of me returns. I do not delude myself into thinking I'm really in control, in control the way I want to be. The way I hope to be eventually through therapy, meditation, and medication. But when I was with you I didn't feel split. And I didn't constantly feel like a liar. I didn't even feel what has been throughout my life a steady stream of self-loathing.
This isn't me screaming at you, this isn't me telling you I've given up. This is me at my most sane, early in the morning revealing to myself what my scars should be shouting out at me.
You say you once spoke of sex as a drug. That's all your ex was, right? 3 years of constant abuse. And you took it because you believed the ends justified the means. Just like all addicts. But you're not addicted to me. You never were. You legitimately liked me and when we were alone we connected on such a level that it scared the warrior image you convey right out of you and left you curled up like an Armadillo inside of excuses. Hiding underneath your shield lest some arrow piece your breast.
You think it not as difficult for me? That even reaching this level of sanity for you has not been a momentous undertaking?
We are not the sadist and the masochist enveloped again in our little dance, my dear. We are two people who happened to be good friends, sharing the most disturbed and depraved of images with and within each other. Then, on a whim, as a mere happenstance of sex, we became more. So I don't fit into your little plan. Alter the plan. Take some of your own advice and live in the dream, praying not to wake up.
Dreams fade fast once you're awake anyway.
All I want to do is go back to sleep.
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