This girl needs to get over herself but can't, an epic saga
I told you I hated you, in a frenzied heat of rage, awoken for the 100th time that morning with your restless limbs pounding on the mattress like beached whales and shipwrecks
Like a Chinese torture drip, the drift off interrupted by a sudden jolt, and I am not like most people. If I miss that sleep I miss the train for the day.
No day. No me. Colourless at best. Demon spawn for the usual norm.
I told you I wasn't like other people over luke warm green tea in a London fog in the cafe. You paid. I didn't thank you.
I said I hate people's bodily workings, the sipping, the slurping, the sleeping, the tossing and turning. I told you I hate people and I'm not cut out for relationships.
You looked at me like you normally do and I sank deeper into the quagmire within me, looking out from behind my eyes, but not seeing. Drowning, but you keep trying to talk to me.
I'm cursed with being able to describe my madness, and see my inability to be reasonable and know I'm not doing a good job, and you're tired, and I have shred your heart.
But not aware enough to know my way out.
I told you I'm not built for relationships. I don't like sharing. We've moved in together and I don't want your things to touch mine.
I feel suffocated by concepts I can't name. I tell you it's a personality disorder. What can we do, I'm broken by life.
But it's an excuse. I should be able to get over my aversions. Like you even. Tolerate, well, everything.
I'm difficult, I know. I'm going through the motions. You deserve more.
I'm so specific. I can feel the medicine in my veins. And the drugs could become a life line. I'm empty. I'm joyless. I'm a fill in for a vacant vessel.
I can't enjoy most anything. You're in the way of my justification. That matters. You do not.
Until the switch flips and I care a lot. But something holds me hostage. Pays ransom with my attention.
I don't know whether I am one or many.
I want your company but I can't stand your sight. I'm really lonely but I really hate that you don't get me.
And I try but the words and the feelings don't translate in your weird language.
I pretend some days that I'm over it all. That I can handle the spaces and the noises. That I'm okay with the chaos and the changes. That I'm easy going. That I'm flawed in a normal way.
That the wires aren't all mixed up. That you don't have to deal with neurotic every single day.
But you expose me to change, to boundary crossing, to discomfort, to merging, to bodies, to things I can't control, to the concept of loss, to the touching and sharing of my objects.
To the waking up at night and in the morning with a rocking ship at sea, a red hot alarm of pain with a landing leg like lead on my stomach.
Dread in the evening to sleep alone because you stayed out, or to wait up, for a change in schedule.
A broken promise. A thing taken literally. You say four hours; I wait up on the clock.
A relationship is a littered arena of triggers and dangers no matter how much you say you want to keep me safe.
It burns and it hurts and it's not your fault, and it is because you are in my life.
So solve the contradiction. I give you 2 years 11 months 2 weeks and a day. I'm meant to give you more, too.
I'm not enjoying it. But I wouldn't enjoy anything. But sweet solace... but you're sure you need me. And I don't need the disruption.
No wonder people like me have a track record of early death. Nobody lives this twisted. No love, no fear, no pain, no drink as potent as the curse of not knowing, of limbo, of borderline, of character disorders.
I'll never be yours even if we are together, and you're happy to have me there even if I am not present.
