June 21st, Year Three

Come, Armageddon? No. If it didn’t work when Morrissey pleaded, what can I possibly do?

Despite Josh still believing that evil is my middle name, we are seeing each other, in ways he will describe as romantic. It’s our differences that sicken me, and exactly what he finds so enthralling. I am whoever I am, (or whatever, as it feels I am more a thing, a creature, bits of stuffed cloth), because I rejected all else.

This isn’t my choice. I am with him out of a sense of obligation. I reject my own feelings, because if anyone has earned me, it is Josh. I allow him to touch me as he pleases, within certain limits. Let it be said that he handles me with admiration, respect, and a gentleness that is not new to me, yet still feels strange.

This is all wrong, and so it twists around the intestines, until I give into what is right.

What is right?

To see with honest eyes, for one. Can anyone recognize honesty?

Josh complains. It is all he does. I dress like I am putting on a show. I am too liberal in my political views. Loving unconditionally is a wonderful thought and theory, but it is false and impossible.

What can be said about starting out with a list of grievances?
Josh is only one of the many who have claimed to feel something for me, while vocalizing everything they would like to change about imperfect me. Past all that, what they mean to say, what they lack the courage to say is, love me, Elizabeth.

There is another, as there always is, at the moment. His name is so common, it keeps slipping from my memory, so I call him ‘Dave.’ And while we do not see each other outside of the bar, because even I have good sense sometimes, he acts the part of the lover when we are together. He always finds a reason to become altered, and argumentative. When I respond in kind, he ridicules me for being overdramatic. He calls me a child, then asks to whisper something in my ear, only to kiss a vulnerable neck. I prefer not to let him get the best of me, because he seems the type to think that aggression is a sign of affection. He would rather have a sick kind of love, than none at all.

It seems to me, we are a generation that consciously and deliberately chooses to be ill. Stealing kisses, wrecking possibility, drinking time away. Very sick, indeed.

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June 21st, Year Three

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