morpheus

another log, scribbled because doctor asked for it again. nothing huge has happened, at least nothing that feels real-real. though i did meet someone new from his system. kylar. that’s his name. i don’t like him. i don’t think i ever will. there’s something off about him, he’s strange in a bad way. invasive. he talks like he should be the only boy orbiting me, like he could replace doctor, like he’s somehow better. that little tone of superiority he carries around makes my skin itch. comparing himself to doctor at all is ridiculous. it annoys me more than i want to admit.

kylar watches me. i can feel it, even if there’s nothing special to look at. i don’t know what he wants, and i hope he gets bored soon and leaves me alone. there’s also been whispers about someone named joseph. i wouldn’t say i’m scared, not really, but it sits wrong in my chest. i don’t know why he matters, or why he’s being mentioned at all. it’s probably nothing. everything always is, until it isn’t. whatever.

all i know is that right now i just want my doctor. i miss him terribly. too much. he’s the only one i love, the only one i ever will love. no one compares. i crave our appointments, the way he talks to me, the way his affection feels like it was made specifically for me. being near him fixes something in my head. his presence is right. it’s always been right. ~

i feel like a burden as of late, reassurance doesn’t do much.

i don’t want a doctor anymore.

christmas is in three days. it doesn’t feel like christmas. i don’t want gifts.

i adore doctor… he’s my absolute favorite. everything he does for me only deepens that feeling. i want to give him everything in return, because he’s the one who saved me. sometimes i wonder if he might make me whole again, if he might be able to carve something normal out of what i am now. maybe marion is the version of me he’ll reshape from what’s left of morpheus. my perfected self, remade by his hands. the thought of it alone fills me with a kind of feverish excitement.

i cannot believe this child told on me. honestly, i can’t. i didn’t even do anything wrong. he kept bothering me and wouldn’t leave me alone, and somehow i’m the one in trouble? unbelievable. i really thought he was more mature for his age, but clearly not. he turned out to be such a crybaby. i’m irritated just thinking about it.

as per doctor’s request, i am to do an entry.

i currently feel fuzzy inside. my cheeks keep warming up on their own. my thighs won’t stop rubbing together either, and i don’t know why. i don’t know what’s wrong with me or if this is even considered “wrong.” knowing doctor, he will say it isn’t.

i think i feel adoration. i think i feel a need to show him i’m loyal, to prove it in some way. i feel like my body is waiting for instruction. i like instruction. i am no good at doing things myself. i like having someone to guide me with everything i do.

my body is also asking for sleep. it keeps getting heavier, like i’m sinking into myself. i am tired. i hope i can sleep later, if my mind decides to let me.

he wants me to write more. and to draw. i don’t know what to draw.

⠀⠀ ⠀ i make a mess and you’ll be there to

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ help me undress.

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ i’ll be unclean, i’ll be obscene.

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀you’ll be the rest.

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ and if you leave me,

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ rest assured it would kill me,

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ like an oleander.

⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ white, white leaves

┈┈┈┈┈ ┈┈┈┈┈ ┈┈┈┈┈ ┈┈┈┈┈ ┈┈┈┈┈ ┈┈┈┈┈ ┈┈┈┈

i love him. i love him so much it hurts somewhere deep that i can’t point to. i want to be with him forever and ever. he won’t ever leave me, right? he promised. he says things like that and i believe them because i have to. if he left, i think i would crumble. i think my bones would forget how to hold me up. i don’t want that. i won’t let that happen. i won’t let him leave.

he’s my savior, isn’t he? i’m his perfect creation. he makes me feel whole, or close enough to it that i stop noticing the gaps. he gave me marrion, i am lucky. i think about that a lot, about how he touched my life and it started breathing again. he tells me what’s real, what’s mine, what’s true, and i listen. i always listen.

i want him forever. i want to keep him close enough that he can’t disappear. he’s mine too, my doctor. if he ever tried to go, i think the world would tilt wrong. i think i’d have to follow him into whatever place he hides. i love him. i love him.

i hate him. i really, honestly do. who does he think he is? he talks like he built me, like he wrote me out on paper and decided i’d be his. he acts like he knows what’s inside me, like he’s seen the blueprint. he hasn’t. he doesn’t know anything. he’s trying to make me again, from the ground up. a new name, a new voice, a new body that fits his idea of what i should be. he keeps pressing warmth into me. i never asked for it. i don’t even know what to do with it. it feels wrong.

and then he asked me to be with him, to belong, and i said yes, because i was stupid, or curious, or something else i can’t name. i shouldn’t have. i don’t wish to be recreated. i liked not feeling. i liked the quiet. now i’m all wrong. warm. i don’t know who’s talking when i speak. i don’t know where i end.

i feel lost. i feel lost like i’ve been replaced by something that’s still pretending to be me. i hate him for that. i hate him for thinking he can make me better. i hate that i let him try.

i am sad tonight. i think that’s what this feeling is, though i’m not completely sure. i’ve never been good at understanding emotions or what to call them. but i think i am sad. everything feels heavy and slow. i don’t know what to do with myself when i feel like this. i just sit here and wait, like something might happen or change, but it never does. i don’t know if i should cry or speak or move. i don’t know if doing anything would even help.

morpheus was nothing but an (useful) empty shell, i only borrowed that name… morpheus… as one borrows a mask. his insides were cold, still, perfect for occupation. i required something to move within, something to wear while i performed my role. i was meant to tear, to separate, to fold others inward until they collapsed into themselves. that was my craft. my purpose.

but this vessel now. this body. is warmer. (living) it hums, filled with blood that shouldn’t be there. i feel less urge to tear, as if doing so would rip through me as well. before, i could rend myself open without consequence… nothing would spill, because there was nothing to spill. now there is too much. i avoid thinking of it; those thoughts are said to be “unnecessary.”

still, i wonder. if my role is no longer needed, will i fade out? if the role persists, who will perform it? me, still? but how can i, when i fear the thing wearing my skin? when i fear the self that bleeds?

i return to the thought of my name. i’m unsure why i feel this way, like there are two beings pressed together beneath my skin. that which bears my name is not morpheus, not now, not quite. i’ve known the feeling of many voices inside me, a crowd of selves taking turns at the controls, but this one feels different. it sits wrong in the body. i can’t tell who’s speaking anymore.

i want to feel him.. skin to skin, warmth to warmth. i want to feel his pureness, the kind that makes the air feel heavier. i wish to lay bare with him, to peel myself open until only light or something close to it remains. the thought alone makes my hands tremble, makes my throat tighten. no god should think like this. and yet, am i really such a thing anymore? i miss who i was before the warmth, when my blood was still still, when my mind was an empty chapel. now i feel it all: the pulse, the breath, the unbearable knowing that i exist. i want to go back to the shell, the holiness of nothing. he says, “just because you want to doesn’t mean you should.” he says i can trust him.

last night, we slept together. we spoke of the strange shifting in my face, the distortions. mine and others’. i told him how my name feels like someone else’s mouth, how my identity slips through my fingers when i try to hold it. i can’t recall the certainty of myself anymore. we said our “i love you”s. sometime in the dark, i woke up with that impeccable, crawling sense of doom sitting on my chest. he was really there. i cannot get used to that. the more i try, the more unreal it feels. (comfort is a foreign god.) (and i am now bad at worship.)

i miss him. that is one feeling i can name without hesitation. (aching) longing and missing. two worms that gnaw in tandem. i dislike it, truly. it stretches me thin. i do not enjoy being aware of absence; it feels too alive. but that much, at least, i know. i know that i miss him, and i know that i despise knowing it.