Madonna/ Whore Complex

There are an endless number of words that are jumbled inside of me. They gravitate and tangle in the pit of my stomach, making me ill. They're eating me from the inside-out, and it literally feels as if my silence is killing me. I wonder if it's possible to believe in destiny if you intend to deny it. It's like I'm a time traveler trying to sabotage my own future, and I'm succeeding. I'm disappearing and fading away, and all that remains is what I'll be without you: a fractured and hollow shell. Cheating fate is torturous, and my damnation seems unending.

She bit her lip as she told me about the last four days. My blood was pumping so fast that I could hear my ears ringing. The nervous laughter was obvious and forced. Fake smiles were all I had to give as I heard about the man who held your attention for longer than I ever have.... or ever will. A swirl of questions washed across my mind, distracting all of my intentions. Did you fuck him? Did you love him? Is he funnier, more handsome, or in better shape than me?  My eyes wandered as my mind drifted into dark fantasies of self-loathing. Then, you pulled me back. Though be it a not much kinder reality. You told me how he "used" you, and how he stopped returning your calls. My worst fears were confirmed, and my heart swelled to my throat before resting in my gut. Everything about you looked different. The angelic glow that was permeating from your face was now absent. The unmistakable magnetism of innocence was vanquished with one felt swoop. I could see right through you, like looking to the bottom of a shallow pond and seeing the scum on the floor. Your eyes became doors into an abandoned temple, no longer fit for worship.

You are a tomb, and all my roses are dead.

Death By Inaction

I saw you again tonight. We shared little more than a few glances, but I mustered the courage to speak to you. This is all I could say:

"Sometimes, I write until my hands hurt."

As your smile dropped and your eyes widened, you responded, "Really?" The tone of your voice was inquisitive and sarcastic. It seemed as if you were asking a question that you knew the answer.

I shook my head in agreement and walked away. I assumed that you understood what I meant, but there is no way of knowing for sure.

Since, I can't tell you how I feel in person, I'll tell you here. My hands cramp from the frantic entries into my journal in the dead of night. They cramp from the pictures I sketch of you, and they ache from writing seemingly inexhaustable poems and letters that you'll never read. Sometimes, I write with such fury and passion that the thick lines of ink become saturated and warm. A mix of sweat and tears smudge the lines, making a beautiful mess of everything. Each stained page is the literal manifestation my torment.

These words will never be spoken to you, but that's what I meant when I said, "Somethimes, I write until my hands hurt."

The Days That Pass Without You

My love for you is not only unrequited....it's forbidden. I can no more have you than I can fly to the sun and burn to cinder. My hope is so painful. It comes in spurts, and I constantly suppress it. My attempts to squelch my lustful yearnings only leave me exhausted and lying in the darkness ....time and time again. I fall in and out of sleep for hours on end, and each dream is more real that the last. Sometimes, during the fog of consciousness between dreams and reality, I believe that you're there. In these moments, I can only have you for seconds at a time, but I would sacrifice everything to have these moments forever. The blank pages in my journal are endless prayers of indecision, and the ink that spells your name is rich with the aroma of my immeasurable desire. Your eyes destroy my heart with every glance, and the air is thick with static when our hands almost touch. It's a chemistry that defies all logic, and it speaks to my most primitive impulses. Every inch of your frame is committed to my memory, and I've imagined every curve filling the void between us....leaving nothing. You are my savior and my damnation. I'm born every time I see you smile, and I die every night without you. I wish I didn't feel this way, but I do. Other than my pain, it's all meaningless. In my silence, I will suffer till the end.  

Honesty Kills

Today, I folded a note and dropped it on ground as I passed you.

On the outside, I wrote, "Destroy After Reading," and on the inside, "Is it possible to believe in destiny when you're certain you've denied your own?"

The tiny white sheet of paper fluttered on the ground like an injured butterfly. Then, it died at your feet. Only a trashcan and I bore witness as you reached down to grab it. I couldn't bare the rejection. So, I turned away before you read it.

Seconds became hours as I escaped into nowhere. When I returned, there was no sign of you or the note. The trashcan was empty other than a cup of coffee I had disposed of earlier. I looked in every direction, but there was nothing. No butterflies. No angels.

She Asked Me to Take Her Picture

I haven't heard from Layla in five days. When she left, it apparently was for good. There was no opportunity for bargaining. There was no chance for me to tell her how I felt. When she left my house on July 31st of this year, I had no way of knowing that she would be leaving my life. If she knew about Elizabeth, she wouldn't have left me in the way that she did. Even the coldest person in the world wouldn't have suddenly cut me out of their life had they known what I went through in the Winter of 1994.

Elizabeth was the first girl I had ever kissed, and the first girl I had ever loved. She lived in my neighborhood, and I rode my bike to her house every day after school. Her parents worked the second shift at a factory. So, we always had the house to ourselves. I was in the seventh grade at the time, and we were both only twelve years old. Neither of us knew much about our own bodies, much less each others. So, we would spend everyday exploring our newly manifested sexuality. Liz made the best peanut butter & jelly sandwiches, and she always served them with a cold glass of chocolate milk. To this day, I still eat peanut butter & jelly on a regular basis, in hopes of recapturing the taste of her kisses on those magical afternoons. We had a routine that was not unlike a married couple. I would come over, and she would make me a snack. Then, we would go into the living room, and I'd flip channels as we spooned on the couch. Before we could settle on a show to watch, she always turned towards me and began kissing my face. She would kiss everywhere but my lips. I asked her why she did that, and she responded, "Because you're perfect." It was the kind of response that an adult would never understand, but we knew what it meant.

One day, she asked me what I thought of her kisses. I said, "I'm not perfect unless I have them." Those were the last words I spoke to her before screaming, "I'm gonna cum!" That was our first time. To say it was magical would be an understatement. 

Things went on that way for six months. My time with Elizabeth was the healthiest relationship I've ever had or probably will ever have. Our passion, loyalty, and devotion was unmatched by our peers and superiors. My dad was cheating on my mom, and her parents slept in separate beds. I spent the rest of my life trying to recapture what I had with her, and now, I have submitted to the harsh reality that what we had can never be regained. 

On September 3, 1994, everything changed. I came to her house as I always did, and we ate our sandwiches. We lied down on the couch, and I start fingering her. Within minutes, we were undressed. The leather on the couch squeaked as our bodies were thrown by the thrusts of my hips. She was screaming, and the TV was on.

I guess that's why I didn't hear her mom walk in.

I had just enough response time to jump off of Liz and cover myself, but I was still naked. I'll never forget the look in her mother's eyes. Yes, it was anger, but it was also jealousy. Her daughter had found something that she couldn't have, and it infuriated her. She pulled Liz by the hair and called her a whore. Her mom told me Liz's dad was on his way home. This scared the shit out of me. So, I got dressed while running out of the house. I passed her dad's car when I was riding home on my bike. By the time I had gotten home, my mom had already received a phone call from Liz's parents. My mom asked me what I had done, and I told her that I had been seeing Liz every afternoon. I didn't mention the sex. Mom told me that Liz's mom had forbid me from ever seeing her again. I tried to call her that night, but when I asked for Liz, her mom told me never to call again. 

After that, I was terrified to go to her house after school. Her mom said that if I ever came to their house again, she would have me arrested for trespassing. She meant it. Elizabeth asked me to come over the following week, but I declined out of fear. For the next few weeks, she would call the minute her parents left. Sometimes we would talk for hours...sometimes minutes. Regardless, she always asked me to come over, and I always refused.

That is until October 5, 1994 (I'll never forget that day). She told me that she had a surprise for me, and that I had to come over. My birthday had just passed. So, I assumed it was a present of some kind. When I arrived at her house, she came to the door wearing her sisters prom dress. It was ill fitting, and she looked silly. I remember feeling sorry for her. You could tell she had this heir of misplaced confidence. When she asked me how she looked, I responded, "You look awesome!" I would find out later that this wasn't the answer she wanted to hear. She wanted me to tell her that she looked perfect, but I didn't.

When I came inside, there were sandwiches waiting for me on the counter, and we ate together like we had so many times before. Then, we went into the living room and starting kissing. I tried to unzip her dress, but she told me to stop. Liz didn't want to take off the dress. It didn't seem weird at the time...none of it did. Not even what happened next. 

When I zipped her dress back up, she began to cry and left the room for a minute. I thought she had went to the bathroom, but when she came back, she had a poloroid camera in her hand. She said it was time for me to go, and I agreed. While I was on the porch and she was at the doorway, she asked, 

"Can you take a picture of me?"

Again, at the time, this didn't seem weird. I thought maybe the picture was my present. I just didn't question it. I snapped the shot and she gave me the photo. I leaned in to kiss her, but she only hugged me. When I tried to let go, she let out a small whimper and held me tighter. As I was riding my bike down her driveway, I looked back to wave goodbye, and she just smiled. That was the last time that I ever saw Elizabeth alive. 

She overdosed on a bottle of her mom's painkillers sometime after I left that afternoon. Her dad found her on her bed, still wearing her sister's dress. In her hands was a sheet of paper.

It read, "I'm not perfect."

That was the only suicide note that they ever found. I still have that photo. I look at it quite often. Now, as an adult, when I look at that picture, I recognize that look in her eyes. I see it in the mirror quite often now. She was in pain. It's ironic, really. The lack of maturity that made our love so pure is what made me so blind to her pain on that faithful day. Her parents destroyed my first and only shot at true love, and in doing so, destroyed her. I'll never forgive them for that.

She Couldn't Sleep

Shorty after putting my journal on the nightstand, I flicked off the lamp and lied down next you. I had become accustomed to sleeping alone, and the heat of your body was a bit overwhelming. In an attempt to get more comfortable, I pushed the covers off of me and turned on the fan. Your hot wet skin was a welcome torture, and I pulled you closer as I slipped into oblivion. Not even an hour had passed before you began to squirm. Out of instinct, I tried to hold you down, but before I could get back to sleep, you pulled away from me again. Your arm brushed my cell phone, and you triggered the display. There was a soft blue glow, and I saw a glimpse of your naked body as you slipped into your pants. By the time I had gotten out of bed, you were fully dressed and stuffing things into your purse. I asked you to lie back down, but you refused. You hugged me and told me that you loved me. You whispered the words, "thank you" and walked out of my room while texting someone. After you left, I looked at the clock. It was three forty-two in the morning. Our entire visit was less than four hours, and I was more alone than ever. Seeing you made things worse. I hate myself right now. I hate you for this.

How Two Words Changed My Life.

It was so late, and I hadn't slept for three days. I'd been listening to your mix-tape for the past week, and the bed was colder than it had been since winter of last year. Whenever the chords changed from C to D, the tears would fall. Nothing could fix me, and I was absolutely broken to the core. The light in my bedroom lamp had blown out earlier that night, and I didn't have the energy to replace it. Other than the glow of the screen on my cellphone, the room was dark. It gave my skin a bit of a blue glow, and it reminded me of how we used to watch TV in bed. I had stopped weeping at this point. It wasn't even sobbing or whimpering anymore. It was just one tear after another, falling like a steady rain. I was too hurt to move, and they soaked my pillow to the point of discomfort. My face was dry from the salt, and my mouth was bitter and dry. I was staring at the phone and thinking of you. At that point, I think it was impossible for me to hurt anymore. It was the kind of pain that breeds desperation and makes you rationalize irrational thoughts. I had forgotten what your eyes looked like, and the way your skin felt. I'd forgotten the sound of your voice and the smell of your hair. All I had were memories that were triggered by songs, and those were fading fast. I'm not sure if I was sad because I missed you, or because I was forgetting you. Probably both. When I reached for my phone, I felt like I had lost control. I went into some type of emotional survival mode as I flipped through my contacts and pulled up your name. As I started to text you, the tears stopped and for the first time in a long time, I felt hope. My message contained two words: 

"Come over."

Right now, you are next to me, and I'm writing this as you sleep. Regardless of what happens when you wake up. Those two words changed my life tonight. Maybe forever.