let me tell you about a place called home.
home is the only place in the world where you can be without having to be anything at all. home is the place where you are loved and can have your love accepted in return. home is the place where you belong. home is a safe place. home is where you go when you have nowhere else to go. home is where you are wanted. home is where you feel whole. home is beautiful and lovely and completely imaginary. home is where the heart is. where the heart belongs. there is no place like home. there is no place like home. because home does not exist. home is a fantasy.
i sometimes think i have finally found a home, somewhere i belong, somewhere that won't cause me pain. i am so happy when i am there. i start to grow roots again. i start to believe in hope again. but then i am dug up, and uprooted, and thrown away, and it is always the same every single time. i am in so much pain i can't even begin to describe it. i can't even fathom it myself. even my broken hand can't distract me from it. to have to hear, over and over and over again, "i do not want you here. why won't you leave?" from the mouths of the place i once thought of as home, from the place where i was happy. to know that once again i am rootless, drifting aimlessly with nowhere to go. to know that i truly belong nowhere on this earth. i do not want you here. we do not want you here. a lost sheep, a kicked dog. i am more animal than man. the pain is more than i can bear. to be left with nothing yet again. to have my things packed for me yet again and told to leave the one place i finally thought i had found to belong. it is true. i don't belong here. i am always searching, searching for someplace to fill up the aching pit that eats away at my ever-shrinking heart, somewhere i belong, but always my searches are fruitless or the fruit they yield is poisoned. i do not know where my heart is. it is at home and home is lost to me forever. they do not want me here. and it is becoming again that i do not want to be here. i do not belong here. i do not belong anywhere. there so no such thing as a home for me to return to when everything goes wrong. i have no home. i do not belong. i do not fit anywhere on this planet. always searching and reaping nothing but pain again and again. i do not want you here. i do not want you. i do not want you.
stray dog, starving mongrel. feeding out of garbage cans to gain some kind of sustenance to last the day. eating whatever pill comes across my path to last the day. anything, anything at all as long as the pain will go away for enough time that i can fantasize being at home. that i can pretend i belong. that i can believe in the illusion of happiness. none of it is real. it will never be real to me. you do not want me. i do not want me. i belong nowhere and there is nothing i can do. broken hand, broken heart, broken dream. dream of being alive. i do not dream anymore. i do not see signs. i have nothing to make me believe that there is any reason to hope. home was all i wanted but now i understand it will never exist for me. you do not want me here. you do not want me. i do not belong. i am so tired of searching.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Sunday, August 26, 2007
got my heart broken again. he dumped me and packed my shit. why does it always have to happen this way
I wrote this a month ago. And it's still god damn right
I wrote this a month ago. And it's still god damn right
| Never go searching for something better, because there is nothing out there. Nothing will ever make you any happier than you already are. Nobody loves you any more than you think they do. Plenty of them love you less. Everything is less than you hoped and exactly what you expected. Don't go through life thinking someone is going to save you. There aren't angels out there anymore. Knock and it shall not be opened unto you. Allelu, allelua. |
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
unlovely
“You don’t care. You don’t love me anyway.”
“I do love you. I’m not in love with you, but I do love you, as a friend. You are a good friend. So you can’t say you’re unloveable because I do love you. I’m just not in love with you.”
“But it isn’t the same. Don’t you understand? Unlovely, and unbeautiful.”
So we sit in silence and I think of all the things you have said, the way you turn away from me in your frustration, the way you told me that if you won the lotto you’d go back and ask her to marry you, the way I told you I wouldn’t be at your wedding to another girl, and then regretted it when you turned your back to me again. You wonder why I am unlovely? Look at the way I love. It is an angry love, a love crawling and struggling and raging like a beast inside my chest, and it is the sadness of love without release that I cannot tell you, that I can never tell you, because I forced you to admit that you didn’t love me back. Because I cannot be happy and honest at the same time. Why couldn’t I have stayed silent, and nourished myself on the fantasy? Instead now I starve on the cold and rocky truth. I cannot seem to allow anything to be imaginary. I had to make you tell me that you don’t love me, and then ask you who you do love. I had to make it so that all the times you snuck the words in and stuck your tongue out at me mean nothing. I had to make it so that I could no longer pretend that you really did love me, that it was only a secret, that you couldn’t reveal it in any other way but to stick out your tongue or carelessly say “Love you,” as you’re closing the door to my car and I cannot respond.
So because I know for certain that you don’t love me, the pain that has been hiding now becomes too close and too strong to bear. The joy and laughter I have allowed myself during the charade now subsides to the tears and fury of the truth. You say, “I will still talk to you, and care about you. I do care about you.” But you don’t see that it is sadder that way, that you cannot build up another façade once you have broken the first and last one down and expect it to beautifully deceive the way it once did. I know you do not love me, and that that is the truth, and that any other lie to be given in place of the pain is just a lie, and that the fantasy will not bring me so much happiness anymore because I know in my mind and my heart the truth of my unloveliness and your unloving.
So when I feel the pain well up and swell inside my throat and stop my breath and burn my insides, I turn to you, and touch you, and remind myself that the fantasy can last as long as I am still here with you, and as long as you do not yet want to leave me behind. I touch your face and your belly and you begin to stir, and I see myself in the reflecting pool of your eyes, see myself as I will be, see myself as I will be if I hold on to this not-love, see myself crying as you walk up the aisle and out the door. See myself as I am, unlovely, and see things as they are, unbeautiful. So I touch you, and I think and I say, “Fuck me,” so that I can forget that you do not love me, “and then fuck me again,” so that I can pretend that everything is beautiful and nothing hurts.
“Who do you miss more than anyone else in the world?”
“My sister.”
And you don’t understand that I love you the more for it, that I love you because you love other people, so I suck in my smoke and my tears and touch you again and say again fuck me, and when your arms wrap around me and you tug at my hair like a dog and you cry softly in the darkness I can pretend that yes, those cries are for me, yes, it is because you love me, and not just what I give to you, yes, I do believe in hope, yes, yes, yes…
And when you ask me, exhausted, quiet, “Can we sleep like this?” it breaks me to have to get up and leave because I cannot sleep, and you crawl onto the bed spread eagled and there is not enough room for me. That is the true truth, the one that is left unsaid, that cold fact that ploughs on without me like a train, that you do not love me, and never have loved me, and never will love me. That I do not believe in hope and yet cannot live without hope. That regardless of the truths that I know, I do not want to believe in them, I want to be happy even if I cannot be honest, that I do not want to leave this place, and I know that you would love me if I stayed. That leaving will not make me happy as it has never made me happy, and that I can only break so many more times before I am broken, and that I wish I could make you happy, truly happy, because that happiness would fill me more than my own not-truth not-real happiness ever could.
I only wish I were a fool, that could be deceived more easily, so that I could continue to pretend and continue to be happy and continue to not hurt, and continue, and just continue, tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow. Every truth I come across halts my progress, and so it becomes that I both love and loathe the truth, that it sets me free but sets me free alone, and it becomes that I understand that I will always be this way, unlovely and unbeautiful, because I know too much of the truth and the pain makes it so.
So I sit here awake and know that you are in the next room and that if I asked you would make space for me on the bed, but that is all it is, making space. I know that your best friend was wrong, and that you do not love me, and that I should never allow myself to believe that anyone loves me again, because without love there is no pain, and without pain there is no truth, so without love and pain maybe I can be not happy nor honest, but neither, neither, at the same time.
“I do love you. I’m not in love with you, but I do love you, as a friend. You are a good friend. So you can’t say you’re unloveable because I do love you. I’m just not in love with you.”
“But it isn’t the same. Don’t you understand? Unlovely, and unbeautiful.”
So we sit in silence and I think of all the things you have said, the way you turn away from me in your frustration, the way you told me that if you won the lotto you’d go back and ask her to marry you, the way I told you I wouldn’t be at your wedding to another girl, and then regretted it when you turned your back to me again. You wonder why I am unlovely? Look at the way I love. It is an angry love, a love crawling and struggling and raging like a beast inside my chest, and it is the sadness of love without release that I cannot tell you, that I can never tell you, because I forced you to admit that you didn’t love me back. Because I cannot be happy and honest at the same time. Why couldn’t I have stayed silent, and nourished myself on the fantasy? Instead now I starve on the cold and rocky truth. I cannot seem to allow anything to be imaginary. I had to make you tell me that you don’t love me, and then ask you who you do love. I had to make it so that all the times you snuck the words in and stuck your tongue out at me mean nothing. I had to make it so that I could no longer pretend that you really did love me, that it was only a secret, that you couldn’t reveal it in any other way but to stick out your tongue or carelessly say “Love you,” as you’re closing the door to my car and I cannot respond.
So because I know for certain that you don’t love me, the pain that has been hiding now becomes too close and too strong to bear. The joy and laughter I have allowed myself during the charade now subsides to the tears and fury of the truth. You say, “I will still talk to you, and care about you. I do care about you.” But you don’t see that it is sadder that way, that you cannot build up another façade once you have broken the first and last one down and expect it to beautifully deceive the way it once did. I know you do not love me, and that that is the truth, and that any other lie to be given in place of the pain is just a lie, and that the fantasy will not bring me so much happiness anymore because I know in my mind and my heart the truth of my unloveliness and your unloving.
So when I feel the pain well up and swell inside my throat and stop my breath and burn my insides, I turn to you, and touch you, and remind myself that the fantasy can last as long as I am still here with you, and as long as you do not yet want to leave me behind. I touch your face and your belly and you begin to stir, and I see myself in the reflecting pool of your eyes, see myself as I will be, see myself as I will be if I hold on to this not-love, see myself crying as you walk up the aisle and out the door. See myself as I am, unlovely, and see things as they are, unbeautiful. So I touch you, and I think and I say, “Fuck me,” so that I can forget that you do not love me, “and then fuck me again,” so that I can pretend that everything is beautiful and nothing hurts.
“Who do you miss more than anyone else in the world?”
“My sister.”
And you don’t understand that I love you the more for it, that I love you because you love other people, so I suck in my smoke and my tears and touch you again and say again fuck me, and when your arms wrap around me and you tug at my hair like a dog and you cry softly in the darkness I can pretend that yes, those cries are for me, yes, it is because you love me, and not just what I give to you, yes, I do believe in hope, yes, yes, yes…
And when you ask me, exhausted, quiet, “Can we sleep like this?” it breaks me to have to get up and leave because I cannot sleep, and you crawl onto the bed spread eagled and there is not enough room for me. That is the true truth, the one that is left unsaid, that cold fact that ploughs on without me like a train, that you do not love me, and never have loved me, and never will love me. That I do not believe in hope and yet cannot live without hope. That regardless of the truths that I know, I do not want to believe in them, I want to be happy even if I cannot be honest, that I do not want to leave this place, and I know that you would love me if I stayed. That leaving will not make me happy as it has never made me happy, and that I can only break so many more times before I am broken, and that I wish I could make you happy, truly happy, because that happiness would fill me more than my own not-truth not-real happiness ever could.
I only wish I were a fool, that could be deceived more easily, so that I could continue to pretend and continue to be happy and continue to not hurt, and continue, and just continue, tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow. Every truth I come across halts my progress, and so it becomes that I both love and loathe the truth, that it sets me free but sets me free alone, and it becomes that I understand that I will always be this way, unlovely and unbeautiful, because I know too much of the truth and the pain makes it so.
So I sit here awake and know that you are in the next room and that if I asked you would make space for me on the bed, but that is all it is, making space. I know that your best friend was wrong, and that you do not love me, and that I should never allow myself to believe that anyone loves me again, because without love there is no pain, and without pain there is no truth, so without love and pain maybe I can be not happy nor honest, but neither, neither, at the same time.
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