So, I've got this heartbeat right? And I think there's a song somewhere in the rhythm, but I can't quite tell you the chords. I've forgotten how to sing and how to think and how to breathe. I don't remember how I laugh or how I cry or how to make a fist. I just do them when the time is right, I just go through the motions. There's no pattern, no flow, no reason for any of it. It's madness.
I learned to say your name by reading the stars as they spread out from your fingertips. I learned to see, with child-like wonder, by peeling back the film from my eyes and watching the way your muscles move beneath your skin, like the myriad streets of a city, the streams and woodland trails of unblemished earth. I learned to feel rage at the sight of your misfortune. I learned to feel mercy at the sight of you in tears.
I keep clouding my thoughts with whiskey and nicotine until one world transforms into the next, is beset by the next, and yields, orgasming, to the next. They've become a kind of circle, and the circle folds in upon itself and whatever gods there may be close their eyes and pray for forgiveness. I will not oblige.
I think that I could love you if the time was right. I think, actually, the time is always right for me. But timing was never my thing. I'm always two seconds too late with a comeback, ten minutes too early with an erection, and never quite as punctual as I'd like to be. Try as I might, I'm never there in time and you're always whisked away. I can see you, watching for me from the window of a passing train, wondering just why I can't put everything aside for once, just once, to see you off. Or to stop you from leaving altogether.
I'm not really sure what I was hoping to say. Apologies are always half-hearted at best, and my instincts are all telling me to run. Run somewhere, fucking anywhere, away from all of you. All of you with your smiles and your scents, your long, smooth legs and silky, cascading hair. I should just go, really. It's all too much. All the pretty eyes and the soft, alluring voices, the supple skin of breast and backside, the toes slender and painted. Every one of them different and every one of them the same. They all run together into a nightmare orgy of tender words that slip from this glib tongue and the lies it conceals.
I'm a bad man. I'm going to lie to you and I'm going to hurt you and god damn it, I'm going to give up. And you'll fall in love with me. They always do. It might be my smile, it might be the words, it might be my fingers, or my laughter, or my dick. You might have honest intentions, you might have no intentions at all, and you're going to fall for it anyway. I'm like a vortex of swirling, light-headed chaos. You'll hear one thing when I say another and I, just happy for the attention of a pretty little thing like you, will run with it. I don't mean to discard you, but it's going to happen.
I'm looking for a girl with some issues. A girl with a little fight in her. One that's just twisted enough to believe in me, and just ballsy enough to put me in my place. I'll tell her women aren't people and she'll tell me to pump her fucking gas and get on with it. That's what I want. Someone that, when it comes to blows, will leave me with some bruises to remember her by. Someone that understands that my nonchalance is bullshit and my confidence reeks of lies and booze and cigarettes. And she'll buy every word of it regardless. She isn't stupid, and she isn't naive, she just knows it's useless to call me out. I hardly even know when I'm making shit up. And she'll adore me, because I'm magnificent. God-like, really.
I think I've finally gone and lost it. All the letters just ran together, unfettered, untethered, they splashed upon the page of their own volition and melded into one giant, throbbing, thing. It just sits there, pulsing, growing, feeding on the blank space around it and sucking in light like a fat girl sucks the filling from a Twinkie. There's this horrible noise, something close to a gag and equally close to the sound of stepping in ankle-deep shit. Behind that, are blast beats. Just hammering along with nothing. It drowns out voices and vices and just bleeds out onto my fingers. Just died in your arms tonight....
Can you deal with this? I think of shit like this every day. Everything you've just read came without forethought, without a plan or a cohesive line of thought. I just poured it out of my skull like tea from a kettle and it took shape here. Could you even talk to someone like me? Can you imagine what I think about during sex? Or while driving? Or while I do anything, for that matter? If you think you can, drop me a line. I'm feeling lonesome. We can have coffee. I might buy you a pretzel.
I might make you a god.
Inevitably Yours,
-S.R.
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