As we sit here in this car, and I’m drunk, and I’m crying, and I’m too cuddled up in my own broken emotions to notice the expression on his face. Too much time has passed. For him, and for me, but he’s older now. And I should be old enough to know the difference, and while I’d like to boil down tonight’s problem into a typical pop psychology analysis of disparate childhood traumas – it’s never that simple. Things are never that easy, and I could sit here and laundry list all the awful things that happened, but you still wouldn’t know. You wouldn’t know until you saw him, but know can ever tell at first glance. How fucking crazy this is. How fucking insane I am to be putting up with this bullshit in the first place. But I always do it. I constantly find myself here, running away from a monster with no name. But it’s his name, isn’t it? The beast I evade. It’s him. Which doesn’t make sense, because I love him, but if I love him, then it doesn’t make sense that I would be running away with such a thumping fear in my heart. Something doesn’t add up here. And he’s crazy, so maybe that’s why I feel this way. Uncontrollable. Rudderless. Lost at sea, and he is the sea and I am a small boat like a dot in an ocean of him.
He always makes me feel this way. Small, but I’ll always love him. Although that’s not the solution, but at least it’s not the problem, either. The amount and force of my love does absolutely nothing to effect this situation whatsoever, which is something that I am forcing myself to accept. This isn’t an equation that love can topple, and loving him is pointless. He’ll never love me, or, at least, not the way that I want him to love me. He may desire me for a moment, but after that’s gone – then what? We’ve gotten so good at fucking each other, but we’re still so bad at avoiding the things that make us destructive and sadistic whenever the other person enters the room. And I’m not sure if that is because I’m not sure where the truth ends or the lies begin, or if it’s because I’m beginning to suspect that there was no truth in the first place. That all those things he said to me were the same things that he copied and pasted from other similar moments with other similar women into our fleeting fucking and the things that we said to each other directly afterwards. If everything he ever said to me had been a lie, I wouldn’t be surprised. Broken hearted for a moment, but, then again, I don’t think that it would make me love him any less. Although, not that it matters because the love is irrelevant in this situation, and somehow the truth is, too. Because I’m a sucker in somebody else’s eyes, but there must be a point at which the pain becomes the pleasure, and I am getting off on all of this. In a really intense way. I masturbate to the sadness, and I grin at my own chagrin and getting let down, over and over again.
But he is beautiful, and I want him, and I cannot cut off the part of my heart that is insatiably and animally attracted to him. Like a beast, and me beneath him is where I would like to be, even right now. Even after all of this. After all these years. He is a dog, but I am a bitch, so maybe that will work out for us in the end. Or maybe none of this will work out, and the last time I kissed him was the last time I ever kissed him, as we sat in that car, and I cried, and he said nothing that made me feel better about anything. As I tried to run out of the car and walk back home. Maybe that was it.
Or maybe the formula of our incessant relationship mandates that I fuck other people for a few more months before this happen again, and the sad songs start bursting out of my mouth like shards of some technicolor rainbow. I’ll be dancing on my own grave soon, kiddies.