truth ya can’t handle

25 Oct

The truth is hard to write, and it is hard to write anything but the truth.

I was thinking today there are some you grow to love to hate, but he is someone who I have grown to hate to love.

You may think hate is vicious and it can be, as I can be with him, but mostly it is debilitating, like the hate get directed inward, and it is my own muscle and sinew being macerated at with a blunt knife. For me it is this constant gnawing nausea and dread around him. It never really fully lifts. Even when I am not acting out of that place, it lurks in the shadows ready to hit again.

He hates me too, for different reasons, in different ways. His hate seems to be sharp and sudden, coming and going. I am “fucking selfish”. I am ready to hurt him, or dismiss him, or ignore his feelings, and he will smack me down good if I try to even get so much as close to doing any one of those things.

The thing is if we asked each other, we would say, we want each other to be happy, and it would be true. If we asked each other we would say our bodies seem to comfort each other, and when it is his cock in my cunt I would say yes that is true too. And if we could find a word or gesture or two to comfort each other, we would give that too, it’s all true.

It is odd to me, there is a soul and body that connect, and won’t let go, and there is a mind and feeling that does not want to hold hands and just easily be. There is no more place for fantasy here, there is just two people who are going to hurt each other again any second now. It is like all these parts of us, soul, body, mind, feeling are rent away from each other in each meeting, so that I barely know who I am and how to stay together anymore. Who we are outwardly quite simply does not work together.

I find it harder and harder to write a fantasy, when I know how false this ideal of our connection is between him. We are dead roots stuck together is all we are. He grows leaves elsewhere. I stay dry, just try to stay alive. We both miss each other, whatever was, whatever just wouldn’t be. And I am caught.

The truth is hard to write, hard to know, hard to avoid. I wake up in the middle of the night sometimes, computer buzzing near, and I remember the cold zombie dread of being at his house. I hate being in his house. There I said it. It is an intuitive hate, I can barely pin its origins. i can be like this sometimes where it is like the walls and floors and furniture seem to carry ghosts of memories past, filling me with this vague unease. It suffocates me, completely silences me. There is something oppressive about his tasteful house to me. Maybe it represents all the places we never went. Maybe all the pleasure I never gave. Maybe a girlfriend’s phone call, maybe the tears and fights and lies and fucks and cums of strangers. I hate his kitchen. I hated having to cook for him, trying to find things in his kitchen. These are all things I would love to do for someone normally. I hated it. I hated the stupid frozen salmon. I hated the knife I was cutting with. I hated the food that was about to go down his throat … Maybe I just hated myself, and i never seem to do anything but hate myself when I am around him and in that house.

Even his piano, his beautiful crystalline deliquescent piano taunts me when I place my fingers on it. A sound close to beautiful, a perfection I will never make.

I do not say the right things when I am around him. I do not feel the right things when I am around him. I cannot take anything around him, the clickety clack of his damn fingers on his phone drives me to new levels of withdrawal. If you want to know what it is I hate, I hate myself when I am around him, truly. I do not know how to stop it. It is like he has held up a mirror to all my insecurities. I am reduced to a nose a bad skin poor gaming skills poor sucking skills. Things like this start to bother me in that house. Like a needle poking away at you. My 19 year old self had more confidence than this.

If you want to know what I hate it is that dream I am always waking up from, that I had the keys to the doors of his sex and I was going to walk around his labyrinth, exploring. Some of them would be shared yes, and some of them would be just mine, only what I could find. And it would be my domain yes to walk around, and he would share it with me yes openly, And it would be mine because he gave it to me. And it would be mine, mine, mine. This dream is an obsession is a dream. I dream everyday that you yearn to let me in that way, yearn to be swallowed whole by me and by everything you see in me and in the everything that I see in you.

The truth is hard to spill, hard to control its flow when it starts. If you want to know what I was doing that night, I have had psychotic moments but none as great as at your house that night. I had to be in your bed, in your head, and if I couldn’t, I had to be out of it. I hated it. I don’t know what I was doing where I was going if I could just get up and leave. And then I’d collapse, fall asleep, mumble, try to talk myself back, walk, mumble, sleep where. In between, in my dreams, in my thoughts, I imagined walking outside in my pyjamas, walking and just walking away and away in the middle of the cool night. Walking to the edge of the bridge facing the mall, dangle my feet over, not to throw myself over, but just to sit there forever and watch the cars go by. Dissapear. Put me away.

And if you wanted to know what I wanted from you. I wanted you to wake up and not find me, I wanted you out in the cold looking for me, i wanted you finding me and realizing if it is as bad as this maybe i should let her go. And I fought and fought this because I knew it was wrong and fucked up. I fought to stay in your hated house. I crawled into your bed finally at some point of the morning, my knees and elbows aching from pushing against your hardwood floor. You sighed and you looked into some place inside who knows, you turned and you held me finally, your soft arms wrapping around my shivering half-naked body. And I hated to love you.

And you told me hours later, as you woke up again, I held you for a full half hour. A full half hour, I hope you remember that, you said bitterly. I want to to tell you, I remember every trembling hated second. I remember it, that hate yes. Where I cried inside, exhausted. Hold me forever, or not at all, hold me in a place where time doesn’t count. I’ll never be happy with this you see.

There are things that should have beeen easier over the years that was not. Not at all.

This isn’t even it, the truth, this isn’t even half of it.


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