drunkencynic's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- my head is a battlefield What's that thing that I say to you all the time? Let me see. Oh yeah. You lead a charmed life. Everything you want you get. And unfortunately that includes me. I'm the only other person I know who has an agenda that's more important than everyone else's. I'm the only other person I know who knows how to get people to do what I want. And yet you completely override me. I fail. I'm left gasping in your wake, frantically trying to remember how I got myself into this. It happens without warning. Like a freak storm. You're talking, laughing, and then all of a sudden, wham, bam, I'm on my back and panting, and you're on your way out the door. That's not to say that I was utterly helpless. I knew what I was doing when I said yes. I knew your intentions weren't exactly of the purest sort. I surrendered myself up when I agreed to your terms. It just happened so quickly. Me telling you I loved you last night was a fluke, I'd like to reiterate. It just rolled off my tongue. Call it an old habit. You refused to listen to my protestations. "And I love you too," you replied, carelessly disregarding my assertions to the contrary. "It's really caring about somebody, very deeply. That's what I think love is. And I love you." Well your definition doesn't preclude keeping the one you care about in the dark about everything, manipulating the truth like clay, skillfully dreaming up stories to carefully feed me and then keep clumsy track of, wearing a mask that changes and dances and writhes with the truth as it comes out. I don't believe in love. And I especially don't believe that you are capable of it. Although when I am in your arms, my mouth covered with yours, your hands setting my skin on fire, as close to me as you can get, love seems very real and very tangible. And just out of reach. If only... But it's sick to dwell on if only. Those thoughts can only empoison, and I'm still healing from the last wounds you inflicted on me. You seem so innocent, you seem so uncalculating. If I were to lift your face off, like the mask in my analogy, would the space behind be busily humming, plotting more evil deeds and how to escape credit for them? If you never lied to me again I still wouldn't believe a word you said. Can it be called a 'relationship' or even a 'friendship' if one party's words go in the ear of the second party's and out the other? In self-defense? I shouldn't have to arm myself against you. The only weapons I have are your misdeeds. The very things that hurt me in the first place I can wield against you like blades. You hate to be reminded of them. You have nothing to say about it, change the subject whenever I lightly finger that power. You are so like a little boy it's hard to imagine your mind like a big black nest of lies. It's hard to wield my invisible weapons against you. Those brown eyes (if I didn't hate dogs I might describe them as puppy-like) peering apologetically at me, carefully contrived to extract all the sympathy and tender feelings I have (a hint- there isn't much). Those big broad shoulders that seem to have exercised a hold over me the longest of almost any other body part. They are perpetually hunched, as if to keep accusations out and confessions in. Your big warm hands, tanned, veiny, rough but oh, so exquisitely gentle. That baby-smooth skin on your face, giving you an angelic appearance. That cruel, soft, perfectly formed mouth of yours. The smell of you, sweat and cigarettes and cars and aftershave. Even all sweaty you smell delectable. And here I am, you nowhere in sight, expounding rather tritely on your qualities. Just for the sake of remembering them. What a hold you must have on me. I remember telling people I was over you. "I will never let him touch me again," I wrote. "He has no power over me anymore," I said. So what now? Am I just going to be kept in agony my whole life? Slave to a boy who is not as intelligent but far more manipulative than I am? How humiliating to be bested by one such as you. I shudder to think at the ease with which I've always fallen into your arms. How simple I must seem to you. How predictible. Yes, I have thought out every possible scenario, and no, I don't want to be helpless in your arms again, but resistance proves futile. It doesn't matter what I do or think. I will always end wherever you want me, despite my bloody resolutions. If it weren't for the fact that you are such a cruel careless creature I'd surrender completely. After all, it's delicious, I'm powerless, why not enjoy it? But inevitably my silly battered cynical heart latches on blindly each time we come together, and in your complete disregard and carelessness you tear it right down the middle repeatedly, without a thought or regret. You probably aren't even aware of the extent of your power over me. I am probably not either. I don't think I even want to know. If I let myself fall for you again, to any degree, I will find myself on my back and crying again. I have to harden my heart. I hate doing it. But you really give me no choice. And then again to surrender to the golden delicious warmth of it all would be so heavenly. Is everyone else so at war with themselves? 8:01 a.m. - 2003-08-14 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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