i tore pages out of a magazine the night i left her, i threw
several things into the river,
forgot them with tequila.
my greatest fault has always been a penchant for pain, the attraction to
agony. i shower myself in cold misery and rake the bottom of my
soul for dead bodies and skeletons and anything that still has the ability to hurt.
why? i mean, it's no secret that i'm a bit of a masochist (in bed, first and foremost) so what
happens to a child to make them this way? when did i start hating
my own happiness, when did the obsession with the dust-covered, still weeping wound of the
i am the kid with a stick poking the dead bird
except i am also the dead bird
and the stick.
does that make sense?
didn't think so.
i believe we make ourselves hurt emotionally because, deep down, we are frightened of
joy. we don't believe we deserve good things and when something goes wrong, we cling
to the comfort of something we predicted from the start.
you defuse a bomb only to mourn the failed explosion so you start
to study explosions, you start to imagine blistered skin and you
blame yourself for letting it happen.
you spend your entire life in guilt for something that is over, why?
how does this change, how do we fix this?
i'm still trying to figure that one out.