Nightmares and Frustration (Sausage McBiscuit w/ Egg and Cheese)
I see you there, always. Even, no especially when you’re absent.
Absent, because it’s not just that you’re not there, no, it’s more. There’s a presence in the longing I feel.
Longing, fuck. I hate myself for putting it like that. I hate myself for how I smell- for how I walk. I bend back too much- poor posture. Not worthy of you.
Please. I can’t even get through a thought without saying something stupid about you and I, you and me. Whatever. All this fawning and staring and worrying and lists upon lists of useless crap. What’s it all amount to, when I think about you being there?
You glisten. You gleam. Your heat ebbs and flows, invisibly and fragrant in the air- I can smell you.
I hit my head on the door and scream. I curse and spit and sink down: weak, tired, lazy- incredibly stupid. Bottomless and nondescript- or at least unremarkable, in your singular, exact presence
It’s not even your taste- good though it is. No, I shouldn’t even describe how you taste. That’s obscene. This isn’t some cheap, stupid, ill-planned porno.
This is even writing. This is me. Weak, stupid me.
* * *
I woke up crying last night. Loud.
I look over at my water glass. My dusty, vile water glass. If I drink it, my throat will feel dirty and vile. I’ll never get back to sleep. If I get up to clean it out and refill it, I’ll be awake.
I stare at the ceiling, sleep-scent clinging to me like mildew. I think about how plaster smells, and smile. Smiling makes me think of you, and I frown.
I remember how I used to smell like you on hot summer mornings. Alone. Filthy. I look over see your wrapper on the floor? How? What?
But no, just a shirt. I shirt left unclean by me- like everything.
I want to, before I kill myself, rub you all over my face. Your grease. Your patty and crumbling, scented bread matter. I want to feel disgusting because you’re all over me, and I want to weep until I’m hopelessly, forever pathetic. I want that to be my, our bottom. Lowest before the end.
I turn over and want to vomit. Nothing comes. I can’t even force stomach convulsions. I barely try- wretch that I am.
I roll over and remember that I’m not thirsty.
Just hungry.
Absent, because it’s not just that you’re not there, no, it’s more. There’s a presence in the longing I feel.
Longing, fuck. I hate myself for putting it like that. I hate myself for how I smell- for how I walk. I bend back too much- poor posture. Not worthy of you.
Please. I can’t even get through a thought without saying something stupid about you and I, you and me. Whatever. All this fawning and staring and worrying and lists upon lists of useless crap. What’s it all amount to, when I think about you being there?
You glisten. You gleam. Your heat ebbs and flows, invisibly and fragrant in the air- I can smell you.
I hit my head on the door and scream. I curse and spit and sink down: weak, tired, lazy- incredibly stupid. Bottomless and nondescript- or at least unremarkable, in your singular, exact presence
It’s not even your taste- good though it is. No, I shouldn’t even describe how you taste. That’s obscene. This isn’t some cheap, stupid, ill-planned porno.
This is even writing. This is me. Weak, stupid me.
* * *
I woke up crying last night. Loud.
I look over at my water glass. My dusty, vile water glass. If I drink it, my throat will feel dirty and vile. I’ll never get back to sleep. If I get up to clean it out and refill it, I’ll be awake.
I stare at the ceiling, sleep-scent clinging to me like mildew. I think about how plaster smells, and smile. Smiling makes me think of you, and I frown.
I remember how I used to smell like you on hot summer mornings. Alone. Filthy. I look over see your wrapper on the floor? How? What?
But no, just a shirt. I shirt left unclean by me- like everything.
I want to, before I kill myself, rub you all over my face. Your grease. Your patty and crumbling, scented bread matter. I want to feel disgusting because you’re all over me, and I want to weep until I’m hopelessly, forever pathetic. I want that to be my, our bottom. Lowest before the end.
I turn over and want to vomit. Nothing comes. I can’t even force stomach convulsions. I barely try- wretch that I am.
I roll over and remember that I’m not thirsty.
Just hungry.