February 3rd, Year of the Corpse

“May your sister die, and take her husband with her. I will die, if you do not come back to me. I think you are dead on the inside, without my love.”

When will Robert learn that a strong focus on death is better done by me. Such things he says, when he does not get his way. He is an unruly child, with no mother in sight. Someone has poisoned him, and it is beginning to affect his brain. I swear that it was not me. Not this time.

My tormentor is beginning to repeat himself. In truth, he has always done that. Affection has a way of making the waters warm, and the colors bright. Now that I am out of anything resembling love for Robert, he is coming through as a tedious man, with an acid tongue.

 
His words do not come from a central source, but a skewed perspective. One, in which I am the villain, the vampire, nailing him to the cross. And I feed on his blood. And I deplete his energy. And I am his, because this darkness is enough for him. Though my feet are firm these days, I fear being pulled back in.

There is no victory here.

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February 3rd, Year of the Corpse

January 27th, Year of the Corpse

The situation gets desperate, enemy lines are drawn, weapons are readied. I wait for the sound of slight movement. I am prepared to react. My vision is keen, looking out everywhere.

Robert has professed his love for me. My patience with him was spent ten arguments ago. I will not allow history to rewind itself, only so that page five can copy itself onto page three hundred and five. There will be no silent abnegation, ordered by his comfort. I will not lack, so that he is at peace. A peace he never afforded me.

Hades asks for answers, and I am empty of those. Upon close examination, I see the mask he has always worn. The paint has begun to chip away, revealing a cheap plastic. He was not the king of demons. He wasn’t even a squire.

Tonight, as he cried for me to need him, I could not bring myself to care. I found myself bothered by a breathy whimpering, and a sobbing half-articulated yearning.
My kisses, he moaned. My arms around him, he complained. My heart still beats in unison with his own, he exclaimed.

The person he knew was, left me naked on a bed, reaching out to feel him one final time. That woman expired in the wait.

In his weakness, I gain strength. I have had enough of feeling imprisoned by the bitterness of a shattered relationship.

January 27th, Year of the Corpse

January 21st, Year of the Corpse

As I slept, my head filled with images of uncontrollable fires. Ruey was there, and at some point, merged with my being. The ocean surrounded us, and perhaps, off in the distance, there was a selkie male. Because I would not shed a tear for him, he vanished.

There were many trails, but only a few leading to safety. Unable to make a decision in time, the flames consumed everything. And, of course I know what this means. My dreams are kind enough to form themselves into simple math.

The unofficial leader of the Order of the Frustrated Cunts has written me a lengthy letter, thanking me for my attendance over the past few months, but that I am no longer welcome at their gatherings. They feel that I am too loyal to my Catholic faith, too private, too arrogant, too judgmental. I nod in agreement as I read these lines, and smile to no one at all.

 
Jennifer has also been asked to forget about the existence of the coven. The reasons given were different. They feel she engages in morally reprehensible behavior, and that she is a toxic element. She has told too many of the married men in her life.

 
It must all be taken in stride. Always consider the source. Promiscuous alcoholics say the oddest things, never of any importance, and strictly designed to make themselves feel better. The real tragedy is that I never learned how to talk to a cat, or fly on a broom.

Finally, Robert has written me. The moon is inspiring everyone to author novellas, and send them to me. The following is, word for word, complete with a title, what my ex-lover sent me:

The Neurotic Muse

When I drive up the red and green waterfalls, I think of you. Only you and the life we could have had together, if things were completely different from the only way reality would let it be. As I drink this brandy that my good friend was kind enough to leave behind for me, I toast to the envelopes of cigarettes, love letters, hate letters, and letters that didn’t make any sense to me whatsoever. I toast to the overcooked spinach croissants, and late night episodes of Roseanne and Mama’s Family. I also toast to the disagreements that neither of us understood, the arguments that both of us knew were ridiculous and cruel, the hilarious agreement we made to never call the police on each other, and I toast to the kids: Mulligan, Abelard, Fukuku, the rest of the Walton siblings, and so on.

I was a dreamer before I met you. I very much appreciated little things, like the colors of the leaves during an overcast day, or the way it smelled at night after the first rain. And also, before I met you, I stopped dreaming. I don’t know why. Perhaps, it was just that the world became too difficult a place to have the time to dream. I could not have cared less about the way lights reflected off the water on the street.

 
After I met you, I dreamt again. Once again, mystery, fantasy, romance, and beauty allowed itself to exist. But we took it too far. We took it to the edge of the deep, green sea, but we didn’t have it in us to row anymore. We were in denial. I stopped dreaming again, but we were in love. Home was in your arms. I can smell your perfume and smoke, when I open the box you gave me. I did end up lighting the candle inside, but was too afraid to come home to you.

I still remember how your lips feel, and what you taste like. I remember what it felt like to fuck you, the dirty things you whispered in my ear, and the sounds you made as you were cumming.

You are so beautiful. You were like a sad angel seeking revenge for something bigger than anyone could imagine. But you made me want to kill myself. I could never do it, though. I couldn’t do it to my mother, but never in my life have I felt so worthless, and never in my life have I needed someone as much as I needed you. It was pathetic, but I loved you, and somehow I know that I always will.

I toast to these things, because I no longer regret the way it is. If I could do it over again, I would definitely do it differently, but I do not regret the way it happened anymore. I am still your Twilight Villager. You inspire me more than anything else ever has, and probably ever will.

I know this is what you wanted, because you told me a short while after I left her that it was. You warned me, but I didn’t listen. The neurotic muse. I no longer think of you as the enemy. I dream again. There is art and beauty in my life again. It goes away because I am easily distracted, but when I think of you, somehow the things I love about the world come back to me. So this is me, gracefully bowing out.

January 21st, Year of the Corpse

January 2nd, Year of the Corpse

Fuck you, Joseph says.

Matthew writes, and I cannot recall his words.

I am an enemy of men. A long-suffering warrior, tribe-less and cause-less. A face that blends in with the shadows that no longer move, but have been made firm by the centuries. Mine is a soft body, supported by softer bones. I am fingers that move in waves, mimicking the oceanic undulations. I am an unpaved road, treacherous and leading nowhere. I call on the quick trigger, fierce storms, by the dark side of the moon. I read every epitaph, leading to an unbreakable curse. And I know that everything will be settled in time.

The language I refused to learn, is the only speech allowed. I stand outside the circle, no longer longing to be part of it. If I paint from here, not a one can make a comment that will injure my ability to create. I have tried with love, and was met with perfect disappointment. I have failed, just as I have been failed. Not every climb is successful, and sometimes none at all. I fall and I rise, but no longer for another.

I peel back the layers to get to the core. I do not know how the skin will repair itself, but I blindly trust that it is all a part of the process. There is still no sign of something solid, and this does not deter me.

January 2nd, Year of the Corpse

December 30th, Year 22

What I feared most, has come to pass. Joseph returned. The Corpse startled me as I sat outside my home, looking up at the sky for an extra moon. He was intoxicated, and quickly demanded a kiss. When met with my refusal, he began to bite my neck. I winced in pain, but said nothing. His hands aggressively explored my body over clothes always black, or ill-fitting.

I moved away from him, only to ask if he would go to bed with me. It was his turn to lose the ability to speak. Slowly, we made our way inside. I needed the comfort of my own room, where I felt I could regain a relative amount of control over a situation that seemed meaningless, and dizzying.

I do not know what I want, but I know it isn’t him.

We have quickly made a habit out of spending time together, I told him. And this is a queer affair, considering I never derived any pleasure from your company, I continued. These words, he took like a pill. You swallow it because you must, and you make no complaints.

I cannot say I know The Corpse well, but I know him enough to understand that his anger will never be expressed in words, but through action. He had chased me, and found that I could never be caught. I had learned to take flight long ago, while he is exclusively a terrestrial creature. This fact made him feel more than pain. It thrust the horror of abandonment upon him.

He would not talk the rest of night. But his hands, they pulled at my clothes with such force, and into my body with such pressure. This achieved nothing. It did not lead to a sexual release. It did not rid him of his ire. It only exhausted him into a slumber I would interrupt, because I could not stand him in my bed any longer.

December 30th, Year 22