A Space for My Rambles

i miss getting fucked.

i miss the leg shaking, can’t walk right, forget to fucking breathe, face down in the pillows FUCKING.

fuck all this lovey dovey, gentle touching, constant reassurance needing sex.

and i shouldn’t miss it

or wish it back

at you, in particular.

i get this really white hot burning in the pit of my stomach and i feel nauseous and i want to cry or scream or hit something.

i feel lied to.

but i’m not sure if it was by you.

after all, when you’re wearing rose colored glasses, red flags just look like regular flags.

you’re lazy, you’re selfish, you’re immature. you seemingly believe that working long hours at a dead end job equates to being mature and able to care for yourself. before me, you would simply go buy more socks when you ran out of clean ones. all your underwear had skid marks or holes in the ass or both. you have no idea how to cook anything - including ramen noodles, which every american over the age of 12 knows how to make. you commit your days off to video games and writing “plot maps” for a book you’ll never write instead of cleaning the piles of dirty dishes and clothes you create. every day i think i’m doing okay, you come home and bitch and fuck up my mood with your pissy pants attitude. i gave up my life for you. you won’t lift a finger for me if i don’t nag you for three days first.

i’m tired. i want to go home.

i was becoming someone. i was becoming something. i had a vague sense of financial security. i had a family. i had enough food and never went to bed for dinner.

i had hope.

it isn’t getting any lighter.

but it’s getting a little easier to carry.

it doesn’t crush me all the time.

but when it does...

what i wouldn’t give to get off work and go walk around by the river alone.

but now i’ve started saying it under my breath out of earshot of the old, crusty dudes that want to act like i don’t know what i’m doing at work.

bad

to

also bad

i am reluctant to call it

“worse”

but i had always thought

it would, eventually,

get good again?

perhaps,

i was too

flighty

angry

broken

numbed by the agony

not of sound body,

not of sound mind.

i was so deeply pained

all

the

time.

i have always been one to freeze.

i never fought.

but maybe some primal part of me decided to try

running.

i was

when i

did too many

i just annoy everyone.

a dead weight deadbeat.

when does it stop hurting?

when does it stop hurting?