I can't remember the last time I sat down
and wrote something of poetry or prose. I've written stories here and
there--but no raw, cleaved-from-flesh wordage. Even just trying to parse
it out now feels like an impossible task, killing my head as I type,
tick, type away. I want people to see and hear me, and yet, I despise
the notion! I'm a living contradiction, just as I was a year ago, five
years ago, further, further.
My dialogues have become incoherent and brainless. Their prior messages
make no sense and I can't seem to solve it. The only solution is maybe
writing at a more reasonable time--but what time is "reasonable"? In the
mid-day, after the medicine has kicked in? Right when I wake up, still
hazy from dreams? Before I sleep, with all the thoughts of the day
crashing down on me? I don't think about it.
Have a job. Had a job, quit because I got sick. Didn't want to
get fired, was pretty sure I was gonna be fired anyways. Most days,
feels like I'm teetering on the edge of madness. The blade of the knife.
Sharp. I remember when I loved the knife. Moved. Moved on. Because I got
better. Got sick again. Keep getting sick. Keep getting pushed down.
Keep letting them force your head underwater; when you learn to breathe
down there, they won't be fucking laughing.
Again, like I've expressed in probably a million poems before, it feels
like the world is passing me by, wind whipping past my cheeks, cutting
me down cold. You think once you get a little older--get done with high
school, college, get a job, anything--it chills out. It doesn't. Things
just get faster and slower and you end up feeling more distaste looking
at your body, but you learn to deal with it. I keep bills for
procedures. I force myself to look at them whenever I start getting a
little too pushy. Remember how much it costs to be even slightly closer
to your true self.
I ride--you ride--bang. Listen to me! Hear me here and now. Oh, damn it,
I'm sick of it all. I'm scrambling to "make up time" when I never even
lost it, it just passed me by, which is what time does. But I still get
pissed, alright? I still lie in bed after libations and feel disgusted.
I run cold, wet fingers over my bare chest and question why this is the
stuff I attach myself to. I guess I just want someone to care, I want
someone to love me. I want to be understood without having to think
about it, without having to ask for it--no, beg for it. I beg like a
dog. Please, God, give me table scraps! I'll make it worth your time
this time--right?
That's what I keep thinking to myself as I jump from place to place. I'm
better this time, and this time, I don't have to imagine being
treated like dirt. I can be treated well. I'm a good boy. I'm a good
man, a good lover. Good. Good enough would even be enough. I
want control. But I also want to relinquish control to you. I want you
to put this collar on me. I want you to pull me up off the ground. Then
I want you to push me back down. I don't want to be afraid anymore, my
beautiful buck--I want you to make me fear a real monster, my handsome
stallion. Give me a chance. Let me make you happy. I want to be happy
too.
...And we're right back at the start, where I said I hadn't written
anything lately. I went right back to begging for my life... You're
getting more stupid bullshit from a guy who nearly pissed himself going
to an internship fair. Alright, go make your money. I'm gettin' closer
to a solution, don't worry 'bout me. I'll be good. I'll be a good...
Good something.