Don't be Inept when it comes to Me pt.1

He's at my work.
He's at my work and I'm not there and they've called me to say he's lurking.Lusting.
It is a tragic little saturday night and there's the threat of the ice storm outside and he's out there. His windowless $300 car with his no registration/title/or license having self. Moping.
The wintery mix outside just adds to the cold, dark spot my heart
has taken refuge in.
It's been so long since he was sane.
I want to go out there, hold him.
Shake him into a fucked up, unreciprocated oblivion.
"I WANT YOU BACK!!"
I want to scream at the hollow, catatonic Not Him. I want to will him back to me, lead him to my waiting arms with a trail of anti-psychotics and prozac.
Is it love?
Is it Real Him, driven by love for me, sitting out in that piece of shit car, chainsmoking to the sounds of familiarity he associates with me?

I grab my motherfucking coat and leave my questions swirling behind me like the ghost of christmas past.

spiral

One of the best things that can happen on a shitty day is, in your downward spiral you happen across an old coping mechanism. A cd you fucking listened to like a second heartbeat once upon a (different) heart ache.. That was this afternoon and re-discovering how perfect "The unwanted sounds of" by Satisfact is.


you arrive with your perfect face
crushing my domestic space


I was thinking "Mateo you have smoked way too much weed and you think perhaps this album was written to tell the story of your life!"
and then I was thinking about cupcakes.

Today is cold and dreary. Yesterday was cold and dreary. All this with clear effects on my heart.

word

My new euphemism for masturbate is "SEXUALLY REFLECT".
As in, I was sexually reflecting about that time me and a certain somebody went to go look at rental houses so we could sex hard in them.

happiness and hysterectomies: vodka as emotional lube

Seeing into the future:
A little over 2 weeks from now.
Alone.
In bed.
New wounds and old body parts gone daddy, gone.
You really do make your own bed and get forced to lie in it.
It's karma. The game of Happiness in which someone has to lose.
I'm so sick of losing that everything looks shiny and metal and sharp and inviting.
(But i'm no longer the dumb as a bag of nails cliche' that everyone is used to me being)
Maps and keys and bus fare and air fare and the huge heavy thing that transports t-bone on planes that sits in the reptile room; ready and waiting.
I can't go.

Though:
This is the part of the heartache where I leave town.
This is the part of the heartache where I make everything hurt so that i control something.
(anything)

My heart is my new binder; or it was my old one but I forgot about it during the Great Hormone Swap.

My heart is the lazy, lonely hunter that would give even Carson McCullers writer's block.

I was a good person once.
I was a good person okay maybe twice.

I just wait for:

footsteps
text message sounds
drugs to kick in
sleep

Don't get me wrong.
there are good things.
amazing things.

But i'm still Plan B.
sitting in a bed covered with photo albums- i have nothing left at all.

in an effort to extract the parts of me that remain honest

The game is Operation and the guy in the middle is me.
The poking, the buzzing, the winning, the losing.
We are all alone, naked on a table while the parts of you someone else needs are being
taken with tiny, plastic tweezers.
Your pain is their game.
I'm the one that laid there; I knew what I was doing.
Take away the parts of me that have gone sour, gone rusted, gone completely unrecognizable from when I was 10 and hiding from a man who couldn't speak except for with his electronic device buzzing, pressed deeply into his throat.
I recreate that situation, 2 decades later. An adult with impending male patterned baldness and enough baggage to employ my own bellhops.
It's up against my throat this time, and i choose not to have it shock me.
I choose not to have anything shock me.

drugs and romance

Every shadow in the distance is you in a different outfit;
the lovelorn's obsessive rorcharch blot, jaded by the weight of you,
the feel of you
the feeling of us when i'm wrist-deep in the moment
alone i look at the walls, wishing them into vinyl-
wishing them into records i can rest a needle on and replay
over and over again, the scratchy sound comforting me into the night;

i live in the grooves made between smoking and fucking and laughing and dancing
my life's mission is to pull you in there,
bring you deep so that the rpms correspond with your heartbeat
and so you'll know
finally
how the beauty of your face fucking propels me.

on drugs, love and charles schultz

2007 Linus carries his cell phone everywhere; fuck the blanket, he's checking to see if another text,another one past 3:09am, like an electronic breath on his cheek, will come from her, and he will feel alive and connected and everything will be okay.
As it stands, his actual blankets have more than three spots where tequila was clearly spilled, and his stitches are almost bursting from the way his heart is pounding.
Good grief is a myth. This is the sad kind.