Disgusting like some disorder, he eats at my soul like ana at my body, how i wish it would destroy me at once
i feel the pain so slowly. It’s constant and quiet now, less of the roar that once tore through my whole world and upended every corner of my life in destruction.
The thoughts return sometimes too. (It is right now)
(The thoughts that I’d be better off…) (the old 505 song creeping back to haunt me, i’m going back. I always end up back here. Maybe I’m just off my meds.)
It’s not love, it’s not even longing. I know that well. I gaze tenderly at the back of my sleeping lover feeling repulsed that my thoughts return to another.
I don’t think it’s on purpose either.
I think I’m supposed to be doing shadow work to undo the trauma of what you and that time did to me.
It’s so much easier to bury it.
Smoke away the memories, bury the unresolved feelings. I’ve learned how to be angry and not just grieve.
I was never grieving you, I was grieving my lack of self. I wasn’t even a whole person then and I was so ready to sacrifice any part of myself for someone who hated me just to be more convenient than facing the truth.
I had wanted you to love me so bad I’d have cut anything out of me to make me small enough to be what you wanted.
I still wish i could be smaller. This body had grown around me, curved and moving. It touches itself in ways that disgust me too. My stomach rests on my thighs when i sit, my breasts reach for anything in a 40 foot radius with their massive size. I wish i could be smaller.
I went to the protest the other day because life went on and somehow got even worse, everything is bad for everyone and I’m privileged to be able to stand on a street corner with a sign and not enough fear. I hope my voice counts as a drop in the waves of change we’re desperate to see come.
I was worried I’d see you there.
None of it is about what happened. About me. About you. About anything remotely related to it either, it felt so selfish that creeping worry. I remember when the sight of you would send me crashing, destroy my weeks, my sleep, my silence. I remember the stinging tears when it was all stripped away, a blessing in disguise despite the pain of it all.
I wonder what would happen…
I wouldn’t cause a scene, though i live for theatrics, it would be selfish and destructive of the movement and with all the pain around me I won’t let myself get in the way of history, distract from the voices that are finally given a chance to cry out.
My friends joked about beating you up if it happened.
For the same reasons I said they’d better not. It would be worse than a crime, my personal drama being used to corrupt the importance of the moment and the way their media would find a way to decenter the truths being spoken about a much greater evil than my broken heart finally being thrown back in your face by karma.
Fuck that, you don’t deserve the attention. I don’t.
It’s a miracle we’ve lived in the same city so long and have never crossed paths. Luck may run out at some point but at least I have some in that sense.
But if you could do me a favor and stop appearing in my subconscious thoughts that’d be nice.
I’m tired of seeing your face in my dreams and trying to decide if your presence alone, regardless of how background it may be renders the dream a nightmare or if i want to deem you that important.
I’ll bury you again soon. In other posts, in more smoke, in the food that makes my machine get even larger.
Maybe this time you won’t get back out. I wont hear your thumping in the walls and the floorboards and around corners in every room in this city. In my fears of seeing you again.
Just remember if you see this I hate what you did to me. I’ll be fine, please don’t report me again, i don’t have time to be hospitalized like back then. I live paycheck to paycheck and they don’t come if i’m not there to work for them.
Part of the change I hope to see, at least.
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