Fairy Tales

"Then this is my story. I have reread it. It has bits of marrow sticking to it, and blood, and beautiful bright-green flies. At this or that twist of it I feel my slippery self eluding me, gliding into deeper and darker waters than I care to probe."

Humbert Humbert, Lolita, Vladimir Nabakov

This is my story. I know that. I am so afraid of doing it wrong that I don't do anything.

I have been thinking about acts of self-destruction more and more, lately. I miss them. I stopped them because it was imperative that I be whole and lucid, not numb and self-pitying. I was told not to; I was told to ask first. I don't want to ask. I don't want my own putrid, sluggish, apoplectic depression all over those I love, or even those that subject themselves to my bullshit in a removed, but consistant way.

I shouldn't think out loud. I don't want worry or concern. I am just recording. On the edge of those deeper and darker waters. I could just plunge in, like a very sharp knife.

Blu talked about old journals and paging through them. I have done that recently as well, sketchbooks too. I found some things that I think are far too revealing. I hate that the answers are so obvious...what am I waiting for? What the fuck am I waiting for?

I want it done to me. That's what. I don't want to be the originator of misery. I don't want to apologize anymore.

Dies irae, dies illa

Solvet saeclum in favilla.

Day of wrath, O day of mourning

When the world dissolves in the twinkling of an eye.

I am decided. I am undecided. You have stopped loving me, if ever you had started at all. It is easy to pretend; it is not so easy to pretend we're not pretending. I have loved you. I have known you, more than anyone could hope to know you. It has made no difference. That look in your eyes. It's not love. Not the love that makes your heart beat faster, that makes you want to be around me infinitely, to own me wholly, in every way. To make me yours as you have been mine.

I am alone here.

I am watching you through a window. I will never find a way in. You have said that you miss the way things were. They were never any different than they are now. We were both okay with that though. I am speaking openly now. I am not hiding behind metaphor. My heart is breaking while I'm locked here with you. I have failed you. I can see it in your eyes, hear it in your words, and feel it in your heartbeat. I am not what I have been, but I am not sure I have ever been what I have been.

I could not have anticipated how much this would hurt. I could not believe that I might choose the wrong thing for both of us over going through this hurt. I'm not sure I can ever be whole again.

I want to hurt somewhere else; for the first time in a long time, I want it not to be my heart. I won't ask. This is between you and me.