“Sorry for asking you
To love me more
Guess I’ve become the burden I was so fearful of before
Never asking you to make me
Frozen mac-n-cheese”
— Sorry I Was Sorry, Adult Mom
Forehead kisses break my knees and leave me crawling back to you. Except, not yet– except, not so far. I stand my ground every day, feeling this undeniable urge to be involved in his life (and wholly uninvolved in mine).
Is he going to kill himself? That’s what I wrote down in my journal that day.
Insecurity is what I owe to the world, meekness as a form of penance for being so bold otherwise. I’m on a never-ending bender, tearing my heart out over and over again, I’m turning myself into oblivion, one menthol cigarette at a time.
I want to have sex with someone, come up for air from beneath the soft down covers, and say, god, i was just somewhere else with you, i was lost. it was just you and me. I want to be enveloped in that silky, musty space with someone who wants me, too. I think I liked that I felt wanted. I wanted, too.
I am kicking, screaming and crying because I do not want to write about him anymore. I do not want to write about him ever again, and I can’t lose him, either. I need to keep remembering him so what happened between us is never lost. I don’t know if I can rely on him to keep the memory alive.
Do I look pathetic? Am I being manipulative, for asking if I look pathetic? I’m sorry.
I keep some things to myself, and one thing I’ve been holding close lately is that I am evil, wretched from the inside out, with deadly spiders creeping their way out of my mouth and earthworms slithering out of my ears. I don’t know if that changes the way you see me.
