November 28th, Year of Hades

For over one year, I have reserved my silence. Reserved it for a better time, which would never come. The hands of the clock stood frozen. I swore the revolution would start soon. I would rise to the occasion, and save my own soul from the fiery pits. His teeth are deep in my skin. Worst of all, I have placed them there, and do nothing to move. I stare at an eclipse, hoping to no longer feel, unsure if that is what I truly want.

One year.

In twelve months, it can all go down so deep, there’s no coming back up without some kind of flood, once believed to be a cause of destruction and death. But what is obvious is a lie, is a distraction.

These pages have remained blank. Months came and went, meaning nothing because I lived as a shadow to a male, not yet a man. What use do I have for a will, if this is what I have done with it? I have given it away, not as a sacrifice, an appeal, a requirement. I gave it all away for no reason, and no return. It was not appreciated, and fully ignored. And when he finally acknowledged my presence, asking only out of pity if there was anything I needed or could want, I was too amazed to say a word.

What once had color bleeding out into everything it touched, has become much like a prosaic drawing, sketched to appease an art instructor, more concerned with rules than creativity. My little love has become like the others, suffocated by attachment and addiction. This relationship is no different than any. It is the same. A reflection, a silly mimicry. It observed what it saw others live through and hang themselves on, and it became just the same. No, it is worse. I no longer know anything, and am so far removed from who I used to be, that I can barely pass as human. My vision is so clouded, that if I manage to get through the day without causing a collision, or being in the center of one, it is by fluke alone.

I was not meant to get on that train. In the end, and Robert and I are still far from it, all that remains is the deafening noise of the illusion shattering. Now, I can hear the creaking and groaning. The foundation is beginning to rot.

In this vulnerable state, the only thing left to do, is tell the truth before it reveals itself. The truth is my freckles running into each other, forming spots of brown that steal from any beauty I may have. The truth is the dark circles under my eyes, caused by staying awake to search for solutions, that only float into consciousness after midnight. The truth is looking like a skeleton with breasts, which contain no sensual drop. The truth is knowing I am not letting go, even if it means pissing away what little self-respect I have left.

How many times has Robert run away from me, from responsibility, from his own thoughts? This is the last time, he says, and I say. I won’t take this anymore, I say with little conviction. No one believes us anymore. No one wants to listen to us anymore. We have become the pair that people dread. We have the war in our eyes. Even Death avoids us, so that our relationship lives on, although riddled with bullets. Our love affair limps on, never getting very far. It stumbles, falls, and stays down in the filth.

My criminal, my Robert. He has seen the inside of a jail cell. His education is limited, having stopped going to school out of boredom. My lover struggles with addiction. I think about this often, wondering just where he picked up his bad habits, and if I am one of them. Am I as terrible as he says?

This is what I wanted, what I earned, what I hunted down with legs temporarily strong, and aim perfectly accurate. These eyes saw Robby and wanted nothing else. Butterflies tickling my stomach into the kind of anxiety that is fondly remembered, have been killed and pinned. Everything is just a memory that is scarcely based on reality.

Robert said he would make me his wife. I replied that I do not have him wholly, so I could only take his family name in part. I would be Mrs. M., and he would be Mr. H. All of it, the entire conversation was absurd. We cannot make it out of this polluted abyss, how would we ever make it to the altar?

It all starts somewhere. Just like with Richard. The train, perhaps. Our first conversation. My car, after we dropped off (Girl) at her home. Robert behind the wheel, speeding down back roads. Not wanting to go to our own respective homes, because we had discovered what it meant to be alive. On his floor, naked in his arms. Flesh against flesh, no sin to be had. Figure out the starting point to prevent the end. It is always possible to change directions.

I am tired of his screaming. Tired of my silence. The eggshells are cutting into my toes. I am tired of his demands, wrapping themselves around my patience. Tired of being considerate. Good and kind, like a saint in skid row. Here I am, whoring myself to appease him. Offer an orgasm for a moment of peace.

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November 28th, Year of Hades

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