As I sit here sweaty, my eyes slinking over onto that would be corpse just lying there in post euphoric decimation. I keep these red lips closed, and keep these brown eyes down, and I pretend, just like he is pretending, that we are not here naked in sunshine and how much shame has just been exorcised via our mutual crotch on crotch grinding of the pursuit of pleasure as a means of destruction?
He is everything sad about you in your weakest moment forced through the painfulness of accepting the fact that, yes, he has accepted his own inability to in any way positively affect the life of anyone else. He has voraciously consumed his own negativity only to spit more negativity, and when he says he cares about any other person – well that other person should readily opt to turn on heels and run, run, because all that caring in his backwards heart will only be a blade that he unwittingly drives into that other person’s back.
What am I doing here. I wait for him to stand up and walk away, whatever words he wants to throw in between now and then being readily accepted as I slink back into myself. Maybe it’s the overwhelming patheticness of the situation. It’s typical, really, all those ever abounding mommy issues nipping at the heels of every conversation he engages in. As though those ever present mommy issues have become the sole motivator for everything he does, and hence the very first and the very last thing he blames every single mistake on. Every fuck up. Every regret. Every could have been. Every time he looks back longingly and wishes so much that he would have done it all differently.
It’s not my place to change all of that. I myself can sympathize with the daily urge to do a fuck ton of heroin, and while it’s something I would never talk to him about, I still can’t help but see how much all that heroin probably ameliorated every aspect of his shattered id. I can’t say that. That would be mean. So I smile and wait for him to leave so I can start drinking alone. He never says anything nice to me without that overhanging aura of, “What the fuck does he want from me?” I try not to think about *why* he tells me I”m beautiful so frequently, because I would probably drown with asking, and if I ever came up again, it would be with all the sadness of his own insecurities dragging me back down. I try not to think about what’s going on in his head, because he carries himself with so much outward, “I fucking hate myself” that I don’t really know how I can manage to be around him so often. Maybe there’s some sameness I see in him that I feel in me.
So I sit right here, in the soot of our skin and the sweat of our sins and I wait for him to hurt me. It’s coming. It’s always coming. He tells me he cares about me and then all he does is hurt me. Over and over and over again. I’m used to it. I can only take so much. He never knows that he’s doing it, which is why me and all my friends consistently refer to him as “stupid,” but it’s not that he’s stupid, well, actually, yes, he is quite stupid, but it’s bordering on an obscene lack of self knowledge and an incredibly self centered world view that makes him stupid. Stupid about me. Stupid about you. Stupid about himself, too, even though…
Every time I look at myself in the mirror, I know that I enjoy the pain, which is why, the next time he texts, of course I’ll text him back. Because if there’s anything he can’t bear it’s the pain of rejection. Although, somehow, I’m supposed to be able to bear that pain.
I am waiting for the day that he hurts me the most, so I can be rid of this pain and be rid of his pain, too.