#notepadmusings

And when I place the body of Christ underneath my tongue, when He dissolves like fine sand, like sweet honey. and when I gasp, when my pupils dilate, as I glance at His heaven, 

Let your mother die, let her wither and decay.

Let her leave you one last time, watch as her belongings permanently reside in cardboard boxes, in a room never visited.

Her life is no longer hers, it is in old quilts, petals between pages, the flinches you still hide.

Let your mother die, it is what she did for her mother. the half-full liquor bottle she gazed at, remember the brittle plants outside her window, the glances towards slammed doors.

Let your mother die, so you can survive.

My father used to say,

“We have the curse, _____. it took your grandfather, it’s trailing after your mother, and it has me in its filthy hands now.”

I would stare at him, sprawled in an old recliner, head lolling back to glare at holes in the drywall.

I would wonder what he meant.

Then, I grew up,

and then I understood.

In my family, we have a weakness in our blood. It makes us sick, we have to find a way to supplement it.

My father’s choice was coke, my mother’s was alcohol, identical to the generations before them.

I thought i was stronger, I could stagger through life without a chemical crutch.

But I am not.

Weekend activities, became weeknight activities, which became daily,

And then I understood what my father warned me about.

Find the shittiest bar you can, feel the music thrum beneath your skin. Buy five or more shots of the cheapest liquor, drink until you feel like you can breathe again, drink until your body forgets how painful memories are. You’re dealing with this the only way you know how. 

Make eye contact with a stranger across from the bar (pay no mind to how the stranger looks like the memories you forgot). When your eyes meet, reach a silent understanding (don’t wonder what his past lover looked like, but know they looked like you). 

Nod your head towards the bathroom, watch his eyes darken and his smirk widen. Down your drink, order another one and down that too (observe how his hungry gaze lingers on your throat). Take solace in the knowledge that you won’t kiss each other, he won’t even be able to notice the cheap liquor on your tongue. Know that you’re good at this, that you will make your presence worth his time. 

In the bathroom, pay no mind to the slurs written on the walls, carved into the toilet paper dispenser. revel in the way his dark eyes consume you, the way his hands skate the planes of your body, the way his mouth whispers into you like a prayer. Scrape your canines against his collarbone, notice the way the sharp pain makes him gasp. Do it again. (don’t think about the way he moans another man’s name, take solace in the fact he’s not your first choice either).

Be with him the only way you know how, take what he’s offering and greedily beg for more. Groan at the way his body cages you in, the way he can’t let you go yet. understand that you both can only feel needed this way. (what other way is there?)

Finish and clean up, accept the bump he offers you, enjoy his way of saying thank you. go back to the bar, accept the drink he buys you, pay close attention to what he does with it, down it while keeping your eyes trained on his face. Offer to go outside and smoke a cigarette with him. Watch as he weighs his chances of getting lucky again. 

Stand in the cool air, the music fainter now, not occupying the space beneath your bones. Talk to the stranger about their father, nod your head along as if you understand (you do, god knows you do). Appreciate the way he looks at your hands as you cup the lighter, at your lips as you take the first drag. 

Go back to the stranger’s house, skip the small talk and go to bed with him. Take it slower this time. Enjoy this cheap facsimile of affection, desire disguised as love. (don’t wonder if this is all you’ll ever be. if this is all you’re good for.) Let him clean you up, let him pretend to be gentle, watch as he carefully avoids the bruises, don’t laugh at the way he tries to look guilty (pay attention to the slight smirk as he presses down too hard on the purple one he left on your neck, don’t listen to his apologies, know that you asked for this). 

Leave before the sun rises, debate internally about leaving your number, but do it anyway. (he‘ll call you months later, and this dance will repeat. it’s okay, you’re a practiced man, and you know this is how you feel whole again). The next morning, notice the way your friends’ gaze lingers on the bruises on your neck, wonder if they think you’re dirty (know they’re right). 

Don’t think about the void inside you, or the faces of strangers at bars. Focus on the way your canines feel on his neck and his hands grabbing you like it’s the only lifeline he has. Know that you’re good at this, know this is how you feel alive. feel whole again in the only way you know how (you’re surviving, you can focus on living later).

I don’t believe in god,  I don’t trust in Him,  I refuse to pray to Him. 

I wonder, in another time  would He believe in me? 

Would His gentle hands encompass my  chubby baby fingers  as I work on times tables  at our scratched kitchen table?  Would He anxiously fiddle with His necktie 

as He gets dressed for a conference, and then,  would He beam with pride,  at my gap toothed smile,  as a teacher confirms my intelligence? 

Would He perhaps take on a different role,  a different form of belief and devotion?

Would He stand by the bar,  watching my body sway and stumble in time  with jarring bass, sharp eyes locked on me,  waiting to pounce  and take His communion? 

Would He worship on his knees, take my body and soul,  in reverence? 

I am asked to write about purity.  I rant, careful to include spelling words, about a horrible monster, with gore flowing from  a jagged maw, and the little princess it ate. 

I am asked to write about pleasure.  I diligently, carefully double-spacing the lines, record a tale of  dripping syringes, white pills, and pupils towards a ceiling. 

I am told to write about  loss. 

I don't. 

But i think about whispered secrets, stolen glances. A missed call.  A missed funeral. 

I am told to write about  God.  This time I will try.  I detail forgotten prayers, lost lovers, beaten psalms. 

I am asked to talk about recovery.  I calmly explain careful routines, daily workouts, stringent habits.