Ideas of you

It is welling up again, tormenting me, fermenting and bubbling.  Here it comes.  The pain.  It’s here again.  It’s right behind my eyes.  They swell as I blink.  The pressure from all the fatigue has set in.  My eyes are sealing the flood of emotion that wants to break out and rapture my entire body.  One day the entire damn of pain will unleash its will on any one close enough to feel it. My eyes for now are able to hold back the pain.

I’m driving and it’s the worst time for me.  I am exhausted from the day behind me.  I can’t pull over and rest.  I have to keep going.  My hands grip the wheel.  My knuckles whiten.  The fatigue, it makes me think of you.  Can you see them, my fatigued feelings?  Do you see them laying in agony about me.  Can you understand what it is I constantly feel?

I see you.  You are right here.  Always right there.  I hate it.  I love it.  I dwell in it because it’s a familiar pool of pain that I must lap constantly and without rest. To rest is to let it die; to let you die and the memory of you abandon me.  So I must continue to swim in it, I flip turn and it propels me into the next meters of anguish.  I guess it’s my heart that creates this pain?  I don’t know.  I’m too shallow to understand.  It is why I keep wading in this blackness of my own consequence.  I guess if I understood it, or if I tried to I’d be able to paddle forward and not remember the pain it causes.

The weight presses down upon me, pushes on my heart, up my throat, and into my eyes, this weight, this pressure, it’s real.  I’m feeling it again and it’s torturous.  I try to stuff it in a place I don’t have to visit.

The pain, it’s a bubble, no a black balloon.  A black balloon of leaded pain that I transport around, cutting into my wrist. It is handcuffed to me, a thousand pound, black balloon of torment that I failingly try to stuff into a closet I no longer want to open or clean out of my heart, my mind, my conscious.

This, these thoughts, they all send my senses into a frenzy. I’m laying with you again.  I’m touching you.  The coarse brown hair I feel with my thumb as I stroke a triangle behind your earlobe.  I’m softly keying on your neck.  Touching your skin with the tips of my fingers, from index to pinky. The fingers drum in search of the rhythm that will open your heart .  My finger strikes the dampness on a hairless part of your neck.  I lean my body into yours.  Closing the distance of your back into me.  I just want to go to sleep with you forever, and not have to drown in this cesspool of purposelessness.

I can’t go back to you though.  I know it.  You are horrible for me.  I’m horrible when I’ve ingested you; I abused you and we both suffered from it.  I’ve consumed you to the point I balanced on an apex of destruction.  I can no longer balance on this pointlessness, seesaw on the axis of shame.  My life was a failure and you were the buoy I clung to.

What is the point of doing this over and over and over again. This nonsense.

My eyes are closed.  I’m laying here with you now.  I’m pressed up against you and curling into a ball with you.  The tears, they leak out.   I’m trying to resist the pain that the other half of me wants to feel, that wants to flagellate me.  A half of my being battles with the half that wants to erase all memory of you.  It won’t let me go.

I don’t know what to do anymore.  I can’t run from it.  I can’t forget it.  You forever are a piece of me. I am on trial with Kafka.  I’m in a sweltering hot room of doom with other people controlling the emotions I’ve been tied up with and I have no escape from. I lay under the covers, sweating out the pain and struggle to find the answers.

I’m talking to you in your ear.  I love you, I whisper.  I can’t say I love the idea of you.  Yet I know I love this idea of you and relish the pain it brings.  I love the idea of you I have constructed and what it supposedly represents.  The truth no longer exists. It’s been obliterated by my own mind and perverted into something I can no longer honestly visualize.

I try to construct a dream of you, the idea of you, I want so badly to build it without remorse, without shattered glass and broken dishes.  And yet, I know It doesn’t exist.  The idea of you and the reality of you are what I have conjoined together into a horrible mutated Siamese twin.  My conscious refuses to allow amy distinction and my mind continues to ride a train on these juxtaposed rails of Faustian delusion.

The curve of your body is thrilling.  My hand has drifted from the back of your neck and down the right side to your bare shoulder, your soft skin energizes me, we are sheeted in Egyptian cotton and it hides our shame.  My hand travels down the raised skin on your arm, and into your hand.  We grip each other.  I’m crying again.  I’m sorry I love you.  I’m sorry, I have to do this for me.  I fool myself into knowing that I’m truly worthy of what I want.

Why does this happen like this?  Why can’t I stop it?  Why don’t I just stop it?  Turn up the radio, go home, atomize these feelings?  Why can’t I just destroy them into a mist.  Why can’t these feelings be blown out like a candle and the acrid smoke simply dissipate into the darkness I use to hide in.

I’ve let go of your hand, are you feeling the devastation, the destruction, the rampant senseless emotional violence I’m extolling on you?  I know I’m being selfish.  I’ve objectified you and now am in love with amorphous being.

My left hand swirls on my head.  I search for thorns and blood, and find none.  I try to be pensive and act mature. Taking it all in, you all in. I know what I want.  I want you to see me for what I can be if you let me have you and all this nastiness in my head was not present.

Will you let me have you?  I must obtain you and show you  how vast my love of you truly is. The roughness of my callouses travel over your side and down onto your bare ribs.  One after the other.  Up and over.  Up and over.  Slowly, up and over down to your smallest rib.  Your waste intersects with your hip.  The skin is so smooth and soft.  It’s warm.

My thoughts of you are imagined.  They are created.  They are confounding.  I don’t remember what you feel like anymore.  I create it.  I’ve distilled my thoughts of you.  I don’t know what is real and what isn’t.  You’re more beautiful to me then you were the first day we met.  Everything about you is fashioned into what never was, hasn’t ever been, but what I wish it to be.

I’ve rounded your body now with my hands.  Up and over it all I have traveled. I’m pressed against you now, fully.  The desperation of my emotions have reached a cavalcade of somberness.  I don’t know what to do anymore.  I require you, for me.  I need to tunnel into you. To burrow into you. Where are you going.

What is all this?  It’s nonsense.  I’ve laid here long enough.  I’ve spent too much energy on this.  Once again I have navigated a ship of despondency closer to the rocks and shallow shores than necessary.  I can’t keep doing this. I have to stop. I must finish this agony.  Yet, I can’t.  Yet, I my own self won’t let it end.  I’m sorry I still love you.  We can’t stop loving you. The pain, I love this pain, it continues to well and will well forever.

I have freed my wrist from my want for your darkness. I know you will be back.  I will be back to you, back into you.  I will find you in the convalescent chamber of sobriety I have placed you in.

I will find you again when I am no longer strung out from this intolerable fatigue of repeatedly consuming a dream of you molded from clay of self-pity.

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