Note to self: Don't listen to Fantasy Man by The Swell Season right now. It's just too much.
Another night in discomfort, pain, tears.
Death by a thousand papercuts. Weather is 100% chance of saltwater and rubbing alcohol.
I am reduced. Raw. A feral she-thing. Limbic and a pile of quivering. Throat sore from heavy howls I could scream in to the night. I could claw at my flesh until it bleeds, then claw some more. To the bone. I would know no better.
Faded. Lightweight. Is it healthy? Likely not - but I'm not looking for health right now. I just want to get through one more moment.
Truth is such a twat.
Convert that oxygen to carbon dioxide. Or as a wise friend said, metabolize. I take what I can get.
I try not to swelter in guilt. Shame for my voice. For honesty, no matter what. Integrity, I tell myself. Over and over. I am wiser than my 25 year old self. Even drowning in the pattern.
I am told I need to find ways out of my prisons.
"Something is wrong with me. I am bad. I don't deserve kindness/understanding for being so bad."
If I don't disentangle from it, I will never be receptive to my heart's wisdom. Figuring this out will be impossible.
He has a choice too. He can choose patience. He can choose to say, Fuck you I can't. And he'll have every right to say the latter. Every night he swirls in to the latter. I take it because I should. It's torture but so the fuck what.
Tell me why. he says. I tell him all the possible whys I've got. The repeats. It's nothing new, but nothing adds up. He protests. Claims censorship. Bites. Growls. I listen. I reason. Cry. Quietly reason. Cry some more. It's a wonder I still have eyes.
He doesn't get it. Not even the stuff on repeat.
As for this current state, neither of us does.
He's going "out" this weekend. Doesn't want to tell me. Of course that's fine. But it's different. I think of what I can do alone. Maybe figure some things out. Maybe do something solo I'd normally do with him or something I normally wouldn't do.
Pioneer archetype is looming again. Smirking. What an asshole, it is.
I want to be held. Why does that seem the desire? To hold the billion pieces together, to keep from coming totally apart because pain thrives in all the cracks. Grows between each shard with earnest. My capacity is ever greater than I expect.
I wonder how my mother would handle. She'd cave forever. She was one and done.
I cave a bit now. But only for now, I tell myself. I am not her. This too shall pass, in one way or another. We'll both be okay, with each other, without.
But fuck. The passing will be worse than a kidney stone.
-----
His eyes. So different. They used to look at me with so much love. All I see is pain. Glaring. Ice. They no longer hold me or caress me. That's one of the greatest losses in stripping naked for him to see, to listen.
Eyes no longer hold. The touch is gone and I'm reminded of my girlhood.
Another night in discomfort, pain, tears.
Death by a thousand papercuts. Weather is 100% chance of saltwater and rubbing alcohol.
I am reduced. Raw. A feral she-thing. Limbic and a pile of quivering. Throat sore from heavy howls I could scream in to the night. I could claw at my flesh until it bleeds, then claw some more. To the bone. I would know no better.
Faded. Lightweight. Is it healthy? Likely not - but I'm not looking for health right now. I just want to get through one more moment.
Truth is such a twat.
Convert that oxygen to carbon dioxide. Or as a wise friend said, metabolize. I take what I can get.
I try not to swelter in guilt. Shame for my voice. For honesty, no matter what. Integrity, I tell myself. Over and over. I am wiser than my 25 year old self. Even drowning in the pattern.
I am told I need to find ways out of my prisons.
"Something is wrong with me. I am bad. I don't deserve kindness/understanding for being so bad."
If I don't disentangle from it, I will never be receptive to my heart's wisdom. Figuring this out will be impossible.
He has a choice too. He can choose patience. He can choose to say, Fuck you I can't. And he'll have every right to say the latter. Every night he swirls in to the latter. I take it because I should. It's torture but so the fuck what.
Tell me why. he says. I tell him all the possible whys I've got. The repeats. It's nothing new, but nothing adds up. He protests. Claims censorship. Bites. Growls. I listen. I reason. Cry. Quietly reason. Cry some more. It's a wonder I still have eyes.
He doesn't get it. Not even the stuff on repeat.
As for this current state, neither of us does.
He's going "out" this weekend. Doesn't want to tell me. Of course that's fine. But it's different. I think of what I can do alone. Maybe figure some things out. Maybe do something solo I'd normally do with him or something I normally wouldn't do.
Pioneer archetype is looming again. Smirking. What an asshole, it is.
I want to be held. Why does that seem the desire? To hold the billion pieces together, to keep from coming totally apart because pain thrives in all the cracks. Grows between each shard with earnest. My capacity is ever greater than I expect.
I wonder how my mother would handle. She'd cave forever. She was one and done.
I cave a bit now. But only for now, I tell myself. I am not her. This too shall pass, in one way or another. We'll both be okay, with each other, without.
But fuck. The passing will be worse than a kidney stone.
-----
His eyes. So different. They used to look at me with so much love. All I see is pain. Glaring. Ice. They no longer hold me or caress me. That's one of the greatest losses in stripping naked for him to see, to listen.
Eyes no longer hold. The touch is gone and I'm reminded of my girlhood.
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