old shit, that resembles new shit, that should die, but won’t, but I’m keen on making it so.

From my window, I see all kinds of life. I see couples fighting, paramedics being called, car accidents and prostitutes trying to fill something up in themselves, something in the men they fuck.
Simplicity isn’t simple. It’s probably the hardest rain to drive against. I’m not sure I can do it. Chaos makes things bearable for me, happiness is foreign and I can’t understand it. I’d rather sit in the dark, in the stench of its rotting corpse, makes more sense.
But the change, the change of mind comes and goes. One day I feel ok, enough to indulge in simple pleasures, like a hot bath or a hot meal. The way the city looks at night when the street below me isn’t congested with traffic.
Not everyone is a bastard; I’ve realized this because I’m not one. It’s that beautiful mask we’ve adorned ourselves with in order to avoid pain. I see those fucking masks everywhere. I love people for what they’re not, the things they hate and despise about themselves. I probably look so sane, so in control with my mask. That everlasting smiling mask that cries a sad song.
How pathetic.
I want to save myself some time by not pretending, I want to keep my sanity.
Then that feeling creeps in, the feeling of aggression and lust.
The beast of burden.
I can relate to the volatile.
I want that carnal love more than anything in those times. Cigarettes just hang in my mouth carelessly, blinding me with the smoke, perhaps to put off the inevitable. Friends become unimportant and I remember my whole purpose, my whole fucking purpose. It’s so clear then.
I wanna fucking tear everyone apart. With claws intact and my intentions standing there, teasing me to give it a try, to go ahead and do “the thing” that I so violently avoided for fear of consequences. It’s come to find me, and I can’t hide.
I want to leave them all to die.
To be the only one left with the answers.
I won’t share them then, I’ll die with them inside.
I’ll never tell.
Those are my dreams. The ones I wake up from, breathing heavy, salty and humid.
Then there are other dreams.
They creep up after many nights of lost sleep, of thinking and crying. They come when I’m feeling naïve and virginal, like a child.
This presence sits on the corner of my bed and slides himself right next to me, knowing I welcome his warmth. How lovely he feels, rugged and available. I’m between sleep and heavy lids then, hoping the sun will explode before morning comes.
He tucks me under his arms and begins to kiss me. I can feel the unshaved beard caressing my face, his mouth rough and gentle, examining my insides without digging. I’m happy to regurgitate.
He knows this little girl is helpless, he knows how this excites me. He understands my need for this. So he pushes me closer and closer to him. I can feel him hard against my thigh, I can feel how much he wants me. I need to be wanted. I need this more than he knows.
I don’t feel violated. I feel loved. I don’t want it to end.
He sends these currents, these fucking electrical currents up and down my body. I can feel my feet tingling shooting straight up my spine to the tip of my head.
I could’ve died then.
I did die.
He took something with him that I never gave. I can feel it missing when I awake. I can feel the weightlessness of its departure.
Sometimes, in times like those, sleeping isn’t half bad.
I like the torture of waiting.
I like the sweetness that comes when I feel that “thing” again.
The thing that has no name.
After something like that, the tingling lingers. It has no name. It carries only mine. But I never share its cadence, I never share its gorgeousness, because one never shares those types of gifts.
The burden then becomes a cross. That distinguishable agony.
Will it ever stay?

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