Love and Other Flukes.

Love and Other Flukes.

I finish smiling at the phone and hang up. My cheeks hurt from having to fake it. I’ve been faking it since forever now. I turn off the phone and put it away.

I hate being weak. I hate it that every time this routine phone call happens, I feel dumb and I feel like a compromise. Why would he pick me anyway? He’s perfect. I’m far from it. And we’re also in this long-distance thing where we talk everyday on appointment-basis. Which means, he calls and talks to me for twenty minutes on the daily. And that I’m supposed to be thankful for it. And he says I’m supposed to be happy he doesn’t cheat on me, even though all the women at work throw themselves at him.

My hands itch to find a fresh new razor.

I kind of started cutting myself when I was with another man, before him. Stopped when I met this guy, but he turned out to be the exact same piece of trash in a different meat-suit, and the whole process started again. I don’t cut myself in obvious places. Only my thighs. We’ve never had sex with the lights on, and he’s never paid attention to my scars. And when we meet, once in a while, they’re almost healed anyway. Sometimes I feel like I’m an abomination that can’t be loved. That everything about me is wrong and dirty and unworthy of someone’s time. That men only ever want to be with me because I’m something that must be pitied upon. Hot tears blind my eyes and revulsion rises inside of me like bilious vomit for even daring to think of myself with so much self-pity – and at the same time, I ask myself why am I even here. If I had a gun, I would have blown my own brains out years ago. Nobody would have known. Not till the apartment started to reek and someone ended up calling the authorities to investigate.

I fantasize about death, a lot. An unhealthy awful lot.

I find a shiny new blade and start tracing the word LOSER on to my right thigh. I’m calm when I have open wounds. I’ve always been this calm when placing calculated obvious incisions at the morgue too. Cutting myself is a whole different rush. And it heals me and it calms me down. I look at the clock. Two hours have passed and I’ve been exactly a year older for two whole hours and I never noticed.

I pat LOSER dry but she continues to bleed.

When I Love You

When I Love You

Everybody loves differently. And there are different kinds of love. There’s the platonic kind. The sexual kind. The obsessive kind. The forbidden (by society) kind. The one-sided kind. The toxic kind. The twisted kind. I could go on.

Let’s talk about the toxic/one-sided kind. Which is probably the worst.

You give and you give and you give some more. There’s no end to it. It consumes you. It sets you aflame. It destroys you. It’s a whole different level of hell. And yet you feel nothing, because there’s hope shining bright inside of you. Hope that keeps you alive. Hoping against hope. Hope that trumps all negative thoughts. I know this because I speak from experience.

And I haven’t changed. I’m still the same. You’d think I’d learn from my mistakes.

I give too much. When I love you, I give more than just my all. I give you the right to perform an emotional autopsy on me, as I lay there with my heart opened to you. And I let you take me apart, over and over. I don’t complain.

I let you push me. When I love you, I let you push me off the edge because I hope with all my heart that you’d be catching me at some point. Maybe you won’t actually push me off the edge, maybe you’d never even take me to the edge. But you push me anyway and I let you. I don’t and I won’t complain.

I let you punish me. When I love you, I let you punish me for being too sweet. I let you treat me like I don’t matter, like some sort of impassioned doormat just waiting to have feet rubbed on it. I don’t complain.

I let you walk away. When I love you, I don’t hold you back. I let you walk away. I don’t ask for much. I don’t complain.

Because hope is a powerful thing and I have a lot of it left in me still.