06.22.14 | HB, MC

You are an amalgam of contradictions. Every time your mouth says, “We can’t do this,” your eyes show me that you couldn’t leave even if the rest of your body tried to walk out the door.

With you, there are two types of silences. The first occurs when you leave me in a state of abandonment in which the silence becomes deafening. How do you expect me to sleep with all of the dissonant notes piercing my skin? Silence has no absolute zero. This first silence is like dark matter. Nothing is still something. It’s unexplainable, but the emptiness drains me.

The second occurs when you’re physically with me. Your lips are sealed, but this silence is saccharine because your eyes laugh and your hands sing.

This is the silence I like.      

It’s never quite right, all the things we are
taught, all the loves we chase, all the deaths we
die, all the lives we live.
― Charles Bukowski, Cut While Shaving
The view changes from where you are standing.
Words can wound, and wounds can heal.
All of these things are true.
― Neil Gaiman, Fragile Things: short fictions and wonders 
I wasn’t actually in love, but I felt a sort of tender curiosity.
― F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby 
You did not understand what I am. I am love. I am pleasure, I am essence, I am an idiot, I am an alcoholic, I am tenacious. I am; simply I am…You are a shit.
― Frida Kahlo, from a letter to Diego Rivera 

Back in late June, I made a private Tumblr dedicated to G****** as part of his birthday present. It was a birthday card of sorts, titled “Happy Birthday, Mon Chéri”. 

I may transfer a few of the posts over to this Tumblr. I never intended for anyone else’s eyes to see the contents of that “card”, but I feel that what I had written for him back then will help others better understand where I’m at now.

In any case, if I do post some of it, I’ll tag it with “#HBMC”.

I suppose I should offer some sort of explanation as to why I disappeared from Tumblr for the entire summer. 

Long story short: Post-graduation, quarter-life existential crisis. Left What’s-His-Face and flew off to Paris for a couple weeks by myself. Y’know, the usual. Any questions?

I was always attracted not by some quantifiable, external beauty, but by something deep down, something absolute. Just as some people have a secret love for rainstorms, earthquakes, or blackouts, I liked that certain undefinable something.
― Haruki Murakami, South of the Border, West of the Sun 
09.XX.14 

How terrible it is that not even angels can live inside my head. Anything that I turn into poetry ultimately crumbles to the ground. That’s just how it is, how it must be.

There are two things I know for certain: I. no man has stayed with me after I turned him into a metaphor, and II. no man has stayed with me after I gifted him an item from Gucci. There are two things I know for certain that are cursed by Cupid: poetry and Gucci.

I have long before accepted that I am not a girl who falls for men. On the contrary, I have come to adore ghost ships and stars. I am a girl who only loves poetry. But this kind of beauty is condemned to tragedy. I can only love you if you are poetry. But once you become poetry, you are thereafter plagued with a death sentence in my mind. Terrible, isn’t it.

Adoration is synonymous with execution. Men have evolved to develop the skill of hanging me with word-strung nooses. They have loaded their pistols with words. Even their silence has come to shoot out bullets. All I do is bleed.

Subconsciously, I think all I want to be is poetry, the kind that lives through centuries. You say that I am made of bones and blood. I say that I am made of stardust and sagas. My mouth is poison because it is foreign. If you kiss me now, you will be infected instantaneously. If you wait, you will become a symptomatic metaphor.

Despite innocent intentions, I am a murderess. None of my victims, however, have suffered alone. Every scene I have left behind in the aftermath indicates murder-suicide. The history, the evidence. When killing love, two hearts must bleed. I have reached the point that I no longer stitch up the wounds; I want to drain out until I am empty. I don’t want to bleed anymore when men touch me with their hands and mouths. I want the poetry to live, but I want the killing to stop.