fuchka
Active member
I'm writing here cos I really want to write to an ex, but I know I shouldn't.
It's Grotto. I don't know how I told the story here but let me tell it again. Hmm. Well. There's too much. Maybe I'll write here, instead, what I want to write to him.
I still think about you all the time. And by "all the time" I mean, at least once a day, probably more.
I don't know why, exactly. Is it because I know you're still feeling the same pain over and over like Christ crucified anew every time the wafer moon is lifted above the altar? Is it because you're avoiding me, so there's nowhere for this liquid to flow, which used to flow to you? There's a missing pipe and a flood under me.
I got angry today because, fuck it, it was your decision to self-medicate and use me up. I was all used up by the time you decided to quit ice. And, by the way, you only told me you'd been using after you'd decided to quit. You'd already broken your pipe when you confessed to me. And by then, I was all gone. We'd had eight months of escalating crazy, til you could yell me foetal. You would say "why can't you underSTAND?" but it made no sense. Our conversations were like novels hacked up and glued together haphazardly, chapters reaching surprising conclusions before starting over at the middle of another tale then suddenly ending at a cliff-hanger preface.
But I get it, you were numbing the pain. You didn't want to feel bad. You wanted to feel okay with what was going on, what you'd agreed to by then but we're really really regretting. You realised you were strapped into this rollercoaster ride and you'd trusted it wouldn't be quite so violent and certainly not as long... Jesusfuck it is really nauseating, actually, the gradients are rather harsher, the curves more parabolic, than depicted in the carnival brochure. And you didn't expect it would go on for so many hours, days. Come to think of it, is it just me or is it looping around, this ride, it keeps at it apace with no intimation of slowing down.
So yeah, I get it. You realised you were trapped in something which only ends a couple of ways. You pull the emergency cord and get off and maybe I get off too? You're not sure anymore and where am I anyway? Or you get the fuck used to the ride. The meth and opiates were essentially anti-nausea medication for the vigorous undulations of living with me in NRE with Lobe.
And you're still off the meth but you keep drinking the tea, and you feel you need it, cos when you take the bandage off the skin comes away too and right there's the wound as wet and agape as ever.
It's not my business, but where do you go from here?
You say you're afraid of getting close to anyone again, because of feeling betrayed by me. But fuck it, I fought for our relationship. I wanted to make it work. I wanted to find a way that I wouldn't have to choose. I hate that I had to and I hate that I had to choose Lobe. But in the hollow of my heart I knew I needed to do that.
Maybe a more self-sacrificial person would have broken up with both you and Lobe. I'm not that kind of self-sacrificial. I please myself. I try to be fair, honest, respectful, all those noble elements we strive for, but ultimately, as you say, love wants what it wants.
But I didn't mean to bring that up. I wanted to talk about the recurrance of you in my dreams, the perpetual autopsy that fantasises about being a mutual vivisection-cum-taxidermy-cum-sculpture using found objects. I miss you. I miss making art with you in the dark.
It's Grotto. I don't know how I told the story here but let me tell it again. Hmm. Well. There's too much. Maybe I'll write here, instead, what I want to write to him.
I still think about you all the time. And by "all the time" I mean, at least once a day, probably more.
I don't know why, exactly. Is it because I know you're still feeling the same pain over and over like Christ crucified anew every time the wafer moon is lifted above the altar? Is it because you're avoiding me, so there's nowhere for this liquid to flow, which used to flow to you? There's a missing pipe and a flood under me.
I got angry today because, fuck it, it was your decision to self-medicate and use me up. I was all used up by the time you decided to quit ice. And, by the way, you only told me you'd been using after you'd decided to quit. You'd already broken your pipe when you confessed to me. And by then, I was all gone. We'd had eight months of escalating crazy, til you could yell me foetal. You would say "why can't you underSTAND?" but it made no sense. Our conversations were like novels hacked up and glued together haphazardly, chapters reaching surprising conclusions before starting over at the middle of another tale then suddenly ending at a cliff-hanger preface.
But I get it, you were numbing the pain. You didn't want to feel bad. You wanted to feel okay with what was going on, what you'd agreed to by then but we're really really regretting. You realised you were strapped into this rollercoaster ride and you'd trusted it wouldn't be quite so violent and certainly not as long... Jesusfuck it is really nauseating, actually, the gradients are rather harsher, the curves more parabolic, than depicted in the carnival brochure. And you didn't expect it would go on for so many hours, days. Come to think of it, is it just me or is it looping around, this ride, it keeps at it apace with no intimation of slowing down.
So yeah, I get it. You realised you were trapped in something which only ends a couple of ways. You pull the emergency cord and get off and maybe I get off too? You're not sure anymore and where am I anyway? Or you get the fuck used to the ride. The meth and opiates were essentially anti-nausea medication for the vigorous undulations of living with me in NRE with Lobe.
And you're still off the meth but you keep drinking the tea, and you feel you need it, cos when you take the bandage off the skin comes away too and right there's the wound as wet and agape as ever.
It's not my business, but where do you go from here?
You say you're afraid of getting close to anyone again, because of feeling betrayed by me. But fuck it, I fought for our relationship. I wanted to make it work. I wanted to find a way that I wouldn't have to choose. I hate that I had to and I hate that I had to choose Lobe. But in the hollow of my heart I knew I needed to do that.
Maybe a more self-sacrificial person would have broken up with both you and Lobe. I'm not that kind of self-sacrificial. I please myself. I try to be fair, honest, respectful, all those noble elements we strive for, but ultimately, as you say, love wants what it wants.
But I didn't mean to bring that up. I wanted to talk about the recurrance of you in my dreams, the perpetual autopsy that fantasises about being a mutual vivisection-cum-taxidermy-cum-sculpture using found objects. I miss you. I miss making art with you in the dark.