The night of June 9th. One year has passed by me, passed through me, attracting scrap metal to weigh the journey down, shackle the survival down, and to slice the pieces even further. Three hundred sixty five unwanted unwelcomed days of you passed through me. Three hundred sixty five nights of terrors that shake me from my sleep, first, when the only sound that bounces into an echo between the inside walls of my skull is that of your targeted screaming and rage and of my crying pleas and, second, when all that projects off of the insides of my closed eyelids are your own eyes burning into me, staring into me, burying a reaching arm into my throat and uprooting the veins, valves, and ventricles of what is left of the heart you molded, rotted, left out in the sun to burn. Not a one of those days has gone by without you appearing in one way or another. Words cannot describe what I would give to remove your entries, what I would do, what I think of doing every day, what my scars prove of my past fantasies of removing my ability to think of you, provide a pained distraction. What I would do. What I could do. What I do. One year. And many nonbelievers to challenge my survival.
To the many, to the anons, to the phantoms, to those whom believed that my grieving, my words, came from an abandoned heart missing their neighboring half, to those whom gained satisfaction from further battering and blaming the battered:
It wasn’t the breakup. It wasn’t the other woman. It was everything before (and soon I learned, everything after), everything that forced me to stay, forced me to love her. It was the threat of suicide if I left. It was the punching of walls. It was the deep clawing of skin. It was being held hostage in her two day old speeding car as I begged to go home, only to receive screams and “fuck you, I’m not driving you home. You can walk” and fist punches to the steering wheel. It was finding her in the kitchen with a knife, and twirling it on her forearm, daring me to leave. It was the honeymoon periods and that I’m sorry I’ll never do it again. It was the marriage proposals and the forevers. And then followed by the only-until-graduations. It was the contradiction. It was the confusion. It was the eggshell walking. It was the insistence that I didn’t communicate, when I knew honest communication was dangerous. It was the compromising, the insistence that I didn’t compromise. It was the blindness, my own, to the compromise. It was the compromise of skin, sanity, and soul. It was the sacrifice of skin, sanity, soul. It was the manipulation. It was the lies. It was the forced breaking of a self to obey another. It was in the supposed name of “love.”
Listen, my breakup choice was one never regretted. It was one life-saving. The grief stays away from settling over the end of the relationship. It lays itself in the relationship’s primary existence.
Continue to batter, to blame. Nonbeliever, resisting-believer, skeptics and predator-protectors, you won’t provide me with any more abuse than my 23 years have faced. You won’t be the one to break me. Especially not after surviving the most difficult year (and, really, more) of my life. You won’t be the straw that breaks this back.
foreverqueird asked: All the love and all the hugs and kisses.
All the love and all the hugs and all the kisses to you.
(P.S.- They’re all really queer too.)
“Night after night, day after day
Would you watch my body weaken,
My mind drift away?”
Maybe there will be a day when I never see you again. I only wish that we could set an exact date so that I don’t have to keep hoping that today will be the first day of life without your physical nearness, hovering, and lurking only to then be sorely disappointed and physically sick when I realize it’s not. And start all over again tomorrow.
It seems that I actually got an answer to that question from her singing lips and yet it was never an answer I could have imagined or predicted, not one I could have manage to see while wrapped in your embrace. You would watch my body weaken and mind drift away. You would be the one to do it, to help me crumble, shatter. How much do you enjoy it? I imagine a person would stop if they weren’t having such fun. Though I also imagine that you are capable of many tortures beyond my current comprehension.
This here, these words, these sentiments please you, satisfy you, don’t they? Why do you insist on maintaining me as a source of your pleasure?
It’s just over 10 days until my college graduation. And between writing here, writing my papers, and purposefully taking large sips of searing tea, I’m looking for and trying to think of everything in my house I could use to hurt myself right now. It’s surprising how creative one can get.
I know I won’t be surviving the summer.
The knives in the kitchen are never sharp enough, are they, my dear
and the razors have all run mad
when you crave the glide of the blade and the stinging chilled night air
for the best run you’ve ever had.
Fuck. I’m really REALLY gay.
And, damn, do I love it.
Listening to WVKR (the college radio station) for the first time in nearly a year…after being quite faithful to it for years, most especially last year. I haven’t been able to in this time, this last year, for fear of listening and being triggered, for fear of listening and all of a sudden hearing her voice. I didn’t want to know when her show was, if she even had one. I didn’t want that information. I didn’t want to know anything about her. So I just avoided it completely.
Now listening to the show of a girl who I find very interesting, a girl who encouraged me to check out her last show. So, ok. To progress, to moving forward, to baby steps. To slowly releasing the grip of your hands, your fingers, your digging nails around my wrists twisted around my back. To pulling back your fingers, one by one. To weakening the hold.
It was such a simple and pleasant day.
And then you walked into class, sat in front of me, and I had to move so I wasn’t within 5 feet of you. So I could be as far away from you without leaving the classroom I am required to be in, in the class I have been strapped down to for an entire semester. I move to the table, a table you then moved to 30 minutes later. You spin in your chair, inevitably allowing your eyes to pass through me, and I avoid your gaze with all the strength I have left. The question: do I leave and run from you? Or do I stay and continue my work? Do I let you continue to chase me away from the spaces I inhabit? Tell me, how much pleasure do you get out of this?
One month and one day to a space without you. One month and one day.
And I have to write a whole piece about it all.
Shit. It’s happening again. Is it fair to say I am doing it again? I don’t know. But it’s happening again. I’m not eating. I can’t. I feel that if I do it will all come up again. The last time this happened, all I was drinking was water and eating a couple of saltine crackers. I lost 10 pounds in a week. Is it going to happen again?
I’m afraid. I can’t feel anything. Parts of my face are swollen, but I can’t tell if it’s from a year of crying, or from violently attacking myself while I sleep because I think she’s attacking me and I’m trying to fight her off but really I’m only fighting myself, or is it the grief just manifesting itself in physical form, which is really just a sum of the former two, right? I’m still dumbfounded by what she did yesterday, by what she has been doing for over 14 months. I just have no words. I literally haven’t been able to speak today. Nor could I even sing, the voice I fall back on when speech is something I am incapable of. You took my voice. My body. My mind. My heart. My soul. You took my sense of self. My safety. My security. My strength. My smile. My light.
I have no voice with which to speak. You did that.
Really. I would love to know.
Is this a “When life gives you lemons” scenario? Because if it is, I think I’d prefer limes…and tequila.