Tag Archives: fights

Original Sin


What a common scene, two people on a park bench in the middle of the night demanding perfection and facing the inevitable truth that it does not exist. I am broken from your knife in my back and you are screaming for me to let you in. One more fight, another head bent in despair. How many other couples reach into unlit caverns to try and make sense of this pain. Humanity is comprised of masses desperate to be unique, mortals looking for eternity in someone else’s arms.

You sit there alternately asking and demanding forgiveness, bringing up my lighter crimes that I have allowed you to own as perspective to what you have done. I have never seen you desperate before, but I still cannot breathe from this. I expected this cruelty from everyone else and it is shattering me to realize you are common. I want to tell you, shake you so you feel me; I am no one to ask forgiveness from. I am not holy. I am not perfect. A reel of my transgressions against you plays in my mind and I wonder if silent lies are all that holds us together. I wish I could be on a cross with the high-minded claim that my blood will save you but it won’t. It is not a blessing and mixed with dirt creates nothing but mud. A snake in our Garden of Eden has exposed us.

Listen to me; listen closely so that you understand. I am afraid of what you can do, of what you are doing to me. I am on fire with what you have done. How desperately I want to cling to my vision of martyrdom, isolate this event so that you are culpable and I am the gracefully wounded. But I cannot. How many nights have you already betrayed me? How many more nights I have already betrayed you.

This is dirty business, falling in love, and it’s going to eat me alive. I do not own a single hair on you and on days like today, I hate you for it. You have mistaken apathy for freedom and I have granted you permission to bear my silence. What if this is doomed? I have spent hours agonizing over the potential of losing you and my solitude is causing you to lose me. What if this is the mistake that erodes and one day you come home to your house being exactly as you left it with one room missing? Will you miss me? Swear your house is haunted because my footsteps will remain on your carpet? Hang figures of me on the wall as protection? My fear is not that I am made up of skin and bones and that you can indeed penetrate me, my fear is that you will overtake and then forget me.

That I cannot speak these words aloud to you seems a sin you will not bear.  But what would you have me do? This is not an anonymous cloister that I can simply regurgitate all the demons swirling in my head. I cannot look at your face while I spout venom and confession is a simplistic art form at best. We are simply two people who have done the ordinary and fallen in love. Nothing unique, we are daily. If we crucify ourselves it will not matter, and men in dresses will not quote these letters I write to you. These letters are sin not scripture. I am forgiving you, not for your transgression but for your humanity. Consider my confession, then- tonight when you fall next to me remember I can leave you too.

I want to cling to my grief, to the ‘how could you’ and the accusations of not loving me enough. But in the face of this I realize I am tiny, of little importance. Days go by from the fifteen seconds it took for you wound me. Slowly hours crawl through me and I am steps closer to being in the ground. I do not have time for grief and I can no longer wait to be saved. At this moment I realize that my imperfection is mine to own and I will grow, from grief to grace. You will not make me afraid and in return I will give you opportunity to face your weakness and slay it. We are both criminals aghast at being robbed. So you have hurt me, done what I have been so afraid of and I am still living. I made you a god and am now charged with forgiving you, and I will. Night after night I will peel this off of me and hand you the blood until I am new again. Finally I realize that love is a filthy verb and requires more blood, spit and tears than it does pink bows and champagne glasses. It is an action not a faith. You will hurt me again and I need from you the courage to admit you are flawed and broken. I will give you my dark corners and come down from this holy altar I built for myself. Be careful with this, with me. We are just two people in the end, just like all the other except that I love you and you, I must believe, love me.

I will breathe this onto you, I love you I love you I love you.


Origins of a Dear John letter


I am leaving you, and I will write the words that you can never hear on this page, so then you can never again accuse me of refusing you honesty. You accused me of so much, so here I will explain my going, in the quiet vacuum of literature so you cannot twist my words and deny my intent. Nine years spent believing you were meant for someone is a hard habit to shake. I realized that every day I was gathering up the strength to not answer your phone calls, not respond to your emails, slowly beginning that uphill battle against your psychotic ego and voracious tendency to destroy anything you encounter in the name of self-adoration. You claim innocence from the bloodied bodies lying next to you, saying you are not responsible for the terror you have sown.

I am here to tell you, in simple English so you understand me, you are. Every day I look around at the myriad of men in the world, and wonder what it was about you that entrenched itself in me until I was dead. I am tired of you. You throw beautiful women up into your sky and claim you make them shine, how do you expect me to stand out in such a cosmos? Yet if I do not try you decry me, claim I am flawed.

I am more than flawed. I am beyond imperfect. I am tiny shattered shards of dismay awkwardly glued together. I do not need you to love me for what I could become, if someone were to come along and fill in the cracks. I do not need you to tell me how great I could be, if I were only more like her (or her, or her). I do not need to bend my words carefully so as to not damage your ego. I do not need to quietly stand here, carrying your past like a trophy, listening to you claim greatness while refusing to see the happiness already in your world.  I do not need you at all.

I am leaving you because it is not my duty to make you a great enough man to understand a love like mine. I am leaving you because I am proud, selfish with my love, and because my pride can no longer tolerate watching my body cry when you forget to call, when you leave me for other women, when you forget my birthday.  I am leaving you because I want to believe in love stories again. I want to still believe in princesses, that I merit feeling like one. I deserve to have my hand held proudly, I deserve to be in love and be unafraid. I am leaving you because I want a love that is brave enough to want me, to want to build a life with me, a love that is not afraid of saying that. Your only words of commitment came after I had committed to leaving you. A safe bet for empty words.

You accused me of not caring for you, of not loving you, of being so enamored with the glint of titles that I did not see who you were. For those words, for that idiocy, I will unabashedly give you my anger, coldly and without pardon. For years you had my heart in a shoebox in your closet, a dusty toy you had long since forgotten to play with. I loved you intensely, the only way I knew how. I loved you with forgiveness, for every word you had said and more importantly, for the ones you never did. I loved you so much the force of it almost made me lose myself in you.

When finally, I stood up and faced you down, roared out my freedom with savage screams and tore off your shackles till there was blood running down my body, then came the accusations of selfishness, of lack of love. I am not leaving you because I am flawed, although I am, nor am I leaving you because I am weak, although I am that as well. I am leaving you because you failed me, and my anger filters through you back towards my straggling limbs for having latched on for so long. I am leaving you because when I laughed you said it was too loud, and when I cried you said you didn’t understand, and when I was angry you said I was irrational. I am leaving you because you never wanted a lover or an ally; you wanted a doll made out of mirrors to reflect your current obsession.

Staying with you is a lie, a play I can no longer act in. You spread your hands as if drawing a question mark in the air, easily forgetting your role in this two-man show. You repeat ‘I love you’ to me with a look of condemnation. I am the deserter, a criminal in my own right. I am leaving you for my own preservation, beyond that I am walking away because a life is built in moments of bravery, and you have faced life with nothing but cowardice.

I am leaving you now, and in a year I will be able to say why. In two years I will have forgotten the black anger that coats my muscles, in three I will believe someone when they say they love me. And in five, I will have forgiven you, and myself.


Letters to Asher (Letter 2)


-A-

I wish there were a literary equivalent of a dramatic unveiling. Some gesture that could be captured in the curve of a ‘V’ to illuminate the way a hand can swoop down, grab a curtain, and then swoop up again to reveal a grand truth. Humans seem to be cursed with this endless pursuit of truth, of knowledge. We have created an entire field around it, with such precision of the word being granted to having a sliding scale, from theory to fact. It gives us a strange sense of superiority to know something, when in reality we are simple little dolls, thrumming to the beat of music we refuse to listen to. Day in and day out I am concerned with the mundane aspect of my own existence. Convinced that whatever psychological turmoil is seizing my heart at that moment is of such brilliant importance that it is vital that I write it down, capture it in some way. Even in my egotistical rages, some semblance of me can appreciate the irony of wanting to capture these fleeting moments in the belief that they are eternal.

Tonight you spoke of cowardice. You used a slightly more vernacular vocabulary, but I’m sure it will quirk your smile a little bit to see me wrap it in the pretty bow of eloquence. Life, in this little ones humble opinion, is simply too short to not use as many words as possible. Smarter creatures than I uttered ‘you will find poetry nowhere if you do not carry some of it with you’.  Are you bemused by this idea? I am so curious about you. We are all cursed with chasing after anything that is difficult. I found myself fiercely defending a person not telling the truth about their emotions because for so long I was that figure, the joker thinking it was their pretty words that made people laugh and not their very existence. Siddharta explained that you must go through life with the conviction that everyone around you has achieved perfect enlightenment, and that any behavior towards you is done in order to help you achieve it as well. I try to hold on to this thought when frustrated, angry, or sad. Breathing in and out and learning to practice patience, to smile when I am angry, to control my emotions and outbursts to the point of knowing how they shape me, instead of waking up one day, twenty years down the line, and realizing that I have no idea how I got there.

If I were to assume that you were perfectly enlightened then, what would I learn from you? I would learn to never shy away from how I am feeling, you saw my cowardice for what it was and held it up in ugly light. It is hardest to see your faults held in hands that you find completely perfect, there is nowhere else to look. You forced me to recognize my own worth, my own brilliance. It was the cruelest line you wrote to me in that letter, those compulsory days of solitude which we failed at so miserably. So much of that letter made me taste bitterness, realization that I had unfairly condemned you and worse off, reduced myself to this pathetic figure that I had always despised. My biggest fear is to realize that I am not brave, that in reality I am mundane, a person so castrated by trepidation that I lose out on anything worthwhile. Cowardice may not be honorable, but it is certainly safe. You always know where cowardice will take you. I was a coward when it came to love before because I was so fearful of being found out. If you forever hold people at arms length, all they see is a mystery and not a scared little girl begging for an excuse to just breathe the way she wants to. The former is much easier to maintain, albeit lonelier. I want a brave love, a person that is mine, that is proud of me and cannot wait to hold my hand. I refuse, however, to give to this love in any way. I tip toe around the ugly parts, soothe tempers and bite my tongue when upset. I must be easy, I must be simple, I must be perfect for whomever is laying next to me at the time. Once the first flowers fade I am already finding excuses to leave, discovering cracks in what I had painted to be a perfect picture, pitfalls that I do not even consider attacking. The only celebration we have, however, is that moment when we realize that we can no longer live in constant fear, that the darkness is suffocating, not soothing, and that with our hair a mess, and our eyes still sleepy, we grab whatever weapon we can and charge forward. I have found this lesson in you as well, because if you are lost, then the ground will shake and split open and I will fall in. So I will give you everything I have, I have no other option.

Finally, in you I learn what it means to rise to a challenge, confront demons. Force myself to stand up in the back of the truck and scream into the wind because I demand to be heard.

I love you madly, in that way that begs of you not love in return but rather, your scorn and your anger. I wish with fervent necessity to have that which is most base about you, if it is simply thrown at me with little regard to where it lands is fine. I demand you, every time I wrap thin fingers around yours it is with the childish hope that I will be able to capture some part of your essence that I swear is hiding from me. If I could have you in your weakest moments, when you are angry and out of control, when your perversions have captured you and you are enraged and engorged by things you cannot comprehend I will be happy. When you bend over me, naked and sullied with the dirty interactions of two people laughing at the cosmos with desperate desire and your eyes intensify while you look at me, give me that in all its completion. Give me that, and I will stop wreaking havoc on your perfect plans (I swear). I want to drag you outside in the rain and the mud, I don’t want to taste your lips in sweet kisses but rather tear at your skin until you bleed, broken and despondent. I want you, all your stupidity and imperfections, your anger, your repressed need to feel sanctioned and approved, your disastrous belief that you will find immortality through beauty.

Give me every dark corner of yourself and I swear I will be happy

I love you today.

Matilda


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