Why be happy when you could be normal?

why, indeed.


Coming back to this.

Touch

My body is abandoned.

His touch is selfish.
-"Kiss my neck"

I do as he asks. I always finish. But finishing isn't the important part. An empty orgasm is worse than no orgasm.

The last one would finish as soon as he touched me.

I miss what it was like to have a lover. To truly lose control. To have my mind wiped of any an all thought, to have my body tense and shaking. Where the slightest touch brought even the hair on my body to ecstasy.

My body is abandoned. By them and by me.

I let my breasts fall. I have rolls in places that should be smooth and flat. I probably am carrying around cancer in my lungs from the cigarettes I smoke.

In my daydreams I imagine disconnecting from everyone, and reappearing five years later, as a graceful woman, a demure goddess, the object of admiration, an air of mystery, two words: sophisticated, together.

I don't see a way out of this bed with no sheet, this room with empty food cartons, this face with over-picked scabs.

"What happened to your face?" my sisters asked me, just yesterday. "Are you on your period? I've never seen you so broken out."

"I just got off it," I lied. I got off it a few weeks ago. I've just reopened every scab every day because it's easier to be ugly now than try to be pretty.

Breaking.

I'm not even able to go insane correctly. I can't fall into a proper depression, one that ends with a mental institution. I lack the dare. I stare at the tiny, pearly beads of iridescent green Irish Spring body wash on my squeegie. I've locked myself in the bathroom because taking a bath constitutes a normal activity and my bf will let me be alone for a while. So I stare at the squeegie, with the green Irish spring iridescent beads, on black, and I want to stare at it for a very long time. But instead I rub the beads into the black squeegie and I start to wash my arm. As I'm washing it, I'm loathing myself because I can't even break down properly, and here I am washing my arm, like a normal person, when in fact I know I"m falling apart.

If only I could fall apart properly, then I wouldn't be such a fucking mess. But instead, I fall apart repressed, which is probably more fucked up than anything.

But I have to go. I hear him on the stairs.

Quick Question:

What's worse? Having a boyfriend that refuses to understand what you are going through, and forces you out into the daylight, and forces you to visit your family and friends, which actually makes you feel better for a small time..

or

Having a boyfriend that understands, and lets you lie in bed for a week, or weeks, or a month, doing nothing, watching movie after movie, staring at tiny beads on your squeegie?


I can't decide if he's helping or hurting me. Now it's time to go outside.