I think there’s too much sex. Gluttonous for it. I think this is a me problem. You’re alright. I don’t think I’m a nymphomaniac. Maybe I’m replacing my weird eating thing with this poisonous desire to be penetrated constantly. I want to congratulate you on being normal. Also want you to fuck off. I’m jealous when you cry because that’s another thing I can’t do anymore. You’re right about me being the bad guy those last few times we wanted to kill each other, like shirtless gladiators in a scorching hot arena. I don’t like losing and I’m sorry. Been noticing that I have a little too much of your blood on my hands—it’s like second skin.
I want a lot of things. We all do. I want to make your insides your outsides. Want to see what that kind of thing does to me. I want to see it all living, puckering, weeping, wet, and leaking. I want to make your insides your insides again. Want to be proud of what I’d done. Want to see you intact, whole, the right side out (and in), skin dry and unpunctured.
I want to tell you to moisturize more. Want you to say yes to that, but really you’re just trying to shut me up. I want to let you know that I know you’re trying to shut me up. Want to be proud of myself for knowing. Far too proud. I want to know everything. We all do. I want to perform miracles. Make you disappear. I’m the only one that sees you, and I’ll pretend that I don’t. Have you all to myself. I know you think you’re dead, but I’m watching your chest rise and fall. We both know it’s all in my head, yet it feels as though it’s happened already.
I can be normal too. Love letters. Gift baskets. Blowjobs if you’d ask. Cooking dinner. Recipes provided for you to cook dinner in my absence. You’re a grown man hyperfixated on pizza. It’s all you care to consume. I find it repulsive. I think I should kill you. I think I should kill your family. Stop it. Vaginal suppository. Tease about anal (it’ll never happen... I think). Traumatizing movie on the couch. I say, “That was great,” you cry and have nightmares about me jumping off a platform and splattering onto concrete below. It’s a real fear. It could genuinely happen at any moment. Nonetheless, I’m laughing as I comfort you. “It’s just a movie.”
Wake you from deep sleep so you shower with me at 3 a.m. I use my Protestant church girl voice. Gently pet the side of your face. It always works for a nonverbal ‘yes.’ Wish you were a girl. I tell you this. “You’d have the biggest tits and the most beautiful vagina.” You’re flattered. I’m glad. Cowgirl. I say you’re my good little bitch. You agree. I slap you in the face repeatedly. You like it a little too much. I’m a little nervous about that. Can of worms. Will meditate on it later. After, we eat about 5 million calories. “It’s your fault I’m fat.” You don’t agree. I reserve some hatred for you at the back of my mind, then I fall asleep on your lap. Fat and happy. Like a cat. I don’t dream at all, no wedding where I’m walking too slow down the aisle and we’re both wearing the same dress, I, the only one with the veil, however. No wet and red bathroom tile. No golden knives lodged in your throat. No blood on my hands. I don’t dream, and I love you.
I do. I love you.
One of the best things I've read this week.
every time I get a notification that you've posted I mentally jump up and down in joy thank you thank you