Goddess,

It’s so hard hiding you in the sheets of fiction. I have buried you and me in a sea of prose, memories, if you will. I have stripped beds of sheets and your scent and I find your hair less and less and your bobby pins have all but been gathered up and tucked away. There is something about keeping things ordered that I find unappealing, call it childish, but the messes, the chaos that tripping over a book bag and a pile of books bring my life some sense of balance. I’m not the slave worker I probably should be, I doubt I will ever be grateful for the opportunity to make money for someone else. Color me solipsistic narcissist, that’s probably the only shade I accurately portray.

The memories, though, they line my dreams and keep me praying for things I don’t believe in. I find myself hiding any optimistic end game because it makes me depressed. Find what you love, and make it your life. And then chase it way, because that’s what happens when I don’t keep myself in check. I’ve destroyed my happiness with apathy and a refusal to be anything resembling a welcoming gamble. There is no God in these keystrokes, nothing that could be misconstrued as holy, I am mistakes on top of the worst intentions. If left to my own reflexes, my own instincts, I would burn and butcher anything and everything that applied the slightest bit of pressure. “Tell me a story”, you ask me late at night or in the middle of the day, wanting some anecdote of how I love you in secret, how maybe there is some part of me that you haven’t seen that will carve the same smile on your face as finding your favorite something after being lost for months. I have nothing left to surprise you with. All the gold and glory of my past, you know. So I’ll tell you this, I used to fear being a serial killer in my teens, consciousness and human interactions have always been something I struggle to understand. I don’t fear this anymore, but my sociopathic tendencies still linger, like a scar, like the off skin colored splotches that line my arms and knuckles. I know I will not hesitate to protect my family. Maybe this is good.

Maybe this is me being vulnerable, maybe not. Maybe this is me reaching out for someone to give me a hug, but then I’ll probably recoil at the moment fingerprints brush my skin. I hate people. You know that, you know that’s the reason I hide behind monitors that cover windows. I am lonely, but I refuse to settle, I’m not wired to do so, as you like to joke about sometimes. Everything is temporary, yet you find me surrounded by desperate grabs and maintaining some sort of permanence. My car is twelve years old and dying, but I refuse to just turn her in. I know I will be stranded someplace for hours when she finally dies, I’ll probably cry. I find more beauty in inanimate objects than I do in most people. Don’t get me started on Matt. I never want him to leave me, no matter how my back aches and breaks in the morning. How you think I enjoy ripping people out of my life so easily. I hate it. God, I hate how easy it is. Some people are just bad though, or useless in our lives. Dead weight will drain you faster than you realize.

I just passed 600 words and I’m realizing this is the longest thing I’ve written in quite some time. I can only write to you it seems. You are all that gives me vision, everything else is a grey that gets distracted by my attention span, the only thing shorter than my temper. You give me calm, you always have. It takes me hours to read three pages of a book I love, but yet I can sit and study the contours of your flesh, the dives and dips of you for hours and days on end. I kissed you for upwards of twelve hours the night we met, with not a break in sight. You gave me everything the drugs tried to. I see your smile every time I close my eyes. And I always cut off the writing before I say what I want to. That won’t change now.

See you soon.

Kind of in a break from writing for a bit, would anyone like me to edit anything?

When I talk to you, I exhale a novel in one breath. My lungs never feel weak and I never need the drugs. I am a stubborn fuck, anyone who spends ten minutes talking to me about anything that doesn’t make me burst with radiance can attest to that. Pray for the smiles, because I will melt you. But accept the dagger that darts between my lips. Call me eloquent, I will have already slit your throat.

Maybe it’s a girl who I caught in the corner of her eye in a dressing room, a crooked grin might be enough. Maybe she’ll try to talk literature with me, she’s seen American Psycho. I exist in the clouds. Don’t look down, it’s disgusting. Putrid stench of what passes for humanity. Maybe I’ll fuck her in the bathroom, I don’t think she deserves the thread count of my kingdom.

I sit alone. Halfdrunk on my singular taste in liquor. “Boy, you always know what you want” “Does that scare you” I’ll stop the pitter patter, polish the bottle and discard it. I’ll smile and tell her to make me bleed. Then I’ll fuck her and make her blue. There is no one here. There are three kinds of people in the world: You, me, and everyone who never mattered.

You were and will never be
Just another girl
to me
and I hope
I pray
I will never fade to
“Just another boy”
That you loved
When the sun was highest
and hottest

Because
when you burn
you scar
you peel
and a part of you
Will never be
Just another summer.

“That’s the problem with romance”
He said to me
“That one
thing or
girl,
that is
forever
just
out of reach,
well, that’s beautiful,
right up until
the point
when you
and everyone
stop giving a shit,
Then
where the fuck
are ya left?”

I’ll tell you,
you’re left surrounded
by
pages and
pages of
something that
will
never
be.

If
you want the girl,
you fucking find
a way
for Tantalus
to look like a cunt
who didn’t
try hard enough,
otherwise
this story you’ve been writing,
will unravel
and burn
into ashes, not
poetry.”

She’s got a smile like shotgun blasts behind broken doors, Lips that part like flesh under lead slugs, make a memory of me, darling. Paint this town the color of summer and pave me a road of nothing but the worst intentions. Said baby, I’ll destroy you if you let me. She says, boy, don’t tease me like that. She’s got lips like swastikas, pure and misguided she’d kill just for the fuck that came with it. Voice like a maternity ward she is new life on chalkboards, everything I could see myself being, paint me perfection, rip my torso asunder and love me like they do from underwater. She says I breathe on her neck like footsteps on a dark alley way, just take me and fuck me, don’t be a bitch about it. Fuck me like I’ll never feel alone again. Make me come like I’ll never need to breathe again. Fuck me. Fuck me good, and don’t you dare say another word.

Eleven thirty PM-

                I rest my forearms on the bar and ask for a whiskey and coke. The bartender is a stunning brunette, 25 at the oldest, looks about seventeen. Curves for days and a dress that said “I’ll do anything but fuck you for tips” Pity she wasted a smile on the likes of me. She brushes my fingers as she gives me my drink, this move, calculated, she knows what she is doing, sadly, so do I. I ask for change back on a twenty, toss her a few coins and smirk. I walk over to a wall and stand, leaning, drinking, surveying the scene.

                Over extended, cluttered. Money is just a number that doesn’t matter. Disgusting. Los Angeles priorities. There’s a blond off in the corner, swaying like there’s no way she’s older than 19, can always spot the fake IDs, they’re the ones with bloody noses because too much is never enough, just looking for a good dick and a night to forget their superficial problems, pity she’ll get stuck with me tonight.

                Scars line her arms like buttons down my chest. This will be too easy. Walk across, part the crowd like the Red Sea, I’ll be biblical tonight. My fingers, face, get warmer, my mouth salivates. I’m hungry, eyes radiant. It’s feeding time.

                Reach out, grab her arm, pull her into me. There is a sadness in her eyes and an immaturity in the way she smiles. She is self hatred only self destruction can fix, I’m being generous and overly optimistic with the term fix.

She leans into me, her breath on my ears “What’s your name?” 
“Sean” I lie, “I’m here to destroy everything good you feel about yourself” 
“I like that name”

She looks at me and smiles again. It’s that look in those eyes, a smile that doesn’t say “I’m happy” but rather, “Please, just tell me I matter, because I’m not feeling like I do anymore”. It’s gratitude in a camera lens, Self-destruction on a poorly designed webpage. She’s what we “in the biz” call an easy target, a quick fuck that is always worth less than the profit she turns. When I tell her “I love you” I’m wondering how many O’s I can squeeze out of her.

She wraps her arm inside mine and flicks her tongue inside my mouth. And we are in a bathroom, or bedroom, I have her against a wall. She isn’t wearing panties, somehow I already knew this. She is tight, somehow I didn’t expect that. I run my fingers past the scars on her thighs and slide every problem I have in my life inside of her. This is not about me coming, this is not because she looks hot, or young, this is not to try to fuck her problems out of her. This is because this is easy, because effort is for something that is real, this is me trying to relinquish myself of guilt, cleanse my body of sorrow and fill her up with the burden of my sins. “I bet your cunt tastes like sunrise” I whisper, promising her a morning I have no intention of spending with her. She coos. I’ll never know. I come three minutes later.

Push her to the floor.

Button my shirt.

Turn away.

Hear her begin to cry in the background.

Smile.

No, we aren’t currently dating. We dated for quite some time, but distance wound up being a motherfucker, so now we are just best friends. She damn well better know she’s my muse :)

We met years before we actually met. Went to middle school, shared some mutual friends, but never each other. Met one day in high school when she was back in town and a friend and I were visiting a mutual friend. She was shy, I thought I was God, apparently I don’t remember and she will never let me forget that.

We met in a manner I remember almost exactly one year ago. Was supposed to be a beach day, turned into Mexican and an impromptu house party. I kissed her that night and I’ve been writing ever since. 

What gets me through finals week. Please don’t come and kill me. Send books and letters if you want though, that’s okay.