If I could reserve every tender feeling for you, I would. I could discard these other things and turn all my attention to supporting you and maybe, just maybe, those little pipedreams of yours could come true. I grin like a madman when I think about you, and I pace like a caged dog when I realize you're so far from me. Someone like you deserves all the best things, all the things she wants from life. I only wish that I was one of those.
You have enticed me, excited me as no one as before. You have broken my bones and mended things I didn't even realize could be mended, things I though too long decayed to breathe, to thrive again. You've been like fire to my nerves and a salve for parts of me I darenot name, could not put into words for fear of sounding like a fool. My only fear is that I've taken too much from you, and one day you'll wake up and realize I have nothing to offer in return.
You have haunted me for more years than I can remember, and yet I find myself divided. There is love, like nothing else in the world exists, and there is detachment because, after all, belonging to you doesn't seem like such a fairytale ending anymore. It seems more like our mutual last resort, like something we would do if no alternative existed, and something we would regret. For all our shared desires, we do not desire to share.
Your pain encites me to rage, and your sorrow spurs me to strength. I would tear the greatest mountains from the earth, and shred mankind's monuments to his power with my bare hands if it would turn your eyes away from the ground and back into the sky. I feel as if I should chain you here, to keep you from flying away and leaving me behind, and yet, I feel like doing so would destroy the very thing I love the most in you. There's something to talk about.
I adore you. Really, I do. But I find it so much easier to terrorize you than to play nice. Sometimes, you make me feel like we are still just children, just kids on the same block, and nothing I can say will ever be gratitude enough for that.
I find my attraction to you fascinating, if only for its endurance. You flit and flee and find your way into my life in clips and soundbytes and I feel like a waystation among your many travels. And yet, you throw your arms around me as if we've shared some deep and meaningful secret, and that makes me feel like the only man in the world.
I have, at times, loved and loathed you. Of all the women I have loved and lost and destroyed and built, you have ever been the most tumultuous, the most contested, and when I have spent my strength against whatever storm I've sailed myself into, you have always remained a safe harbor, a port in the tempest, where I can rest my weary bones and begin to gather myself to face it anew.
I have ever loved you, but I've never been so sure that I could not stand to be near a person.
The lady has a hold on me, the likes of which I can't find a metaphor to describe. In my mind, I finacy myself this brave adventurer, boldly facing down gods and men and monsters to find a way to prove myself worthy. The reality, I think, is that I am just a silly boy, and you are much too wise to see the virtues of my foolishness.
I would roast you on a spit, and feed you to a pack of wolves, but we have endured enough. And death would be too good for you.
There was a time when I found you distasteful. Now, I find the slightest thought of you nauseating. Like bad shrimp or undercooked poultry. You are no more significant to me than the bile it would take to digest the bits of you not too spoiled with venom to devour. Even digesting you seems like a waste.
You have never written me a song, and yet I dream sometimes of being little and terrified, and only the way that you sing can lull me to sleep. You have kept me safe and sane despite my ambitions to be neither, and that you've done so without expecting a single word of praise moves me to the brink of tears. So I crack a joke about the way you're getting old, and cover all that up with laughter.
I love the way you've grown, but you will never, ever hear me say it.
As far as little girls go, you turned out to be pretty endearing. I find myself at odds, sometimes in love and sometimes afraid to even think about you for fear of turning myself in to the proper authorities.
I remember when you were tiny, how you cried and bitched and moaned. You haven't changed that much, but I still think its just divine.
You're like oxygen when you're near me. No, something more incendiary. More magnetic. Just something more. I would kill lesser men to explore you, and I would burn myself out trying to find my way. All of that, just from the very simple, very drunken way you've smiled at me in the early hours before dawn, before daylight came to steal away the last little bit of magic in me and you went back to your life. I'm still looking for the way back to mine.
You have shown me that all the things that drew me toward you, were shallowand two-dimensional. I con only thank you for exposing yourself before I invested myself too much in you.
Sometimes, the way that you talk makes me want to gag you and punch you in the throat. Other times, I just want to leave the room. Quite frankly, I've come to the realization that you're a fucking idiot, and I'd like to have you put down so you can't bring harm to yourself.
I love you, but seriously, he wants butt sex. You'll get whatever you want that way.
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Every year, about this time, I like to do something like this. Something that lets out some of those pent-up feelings. I did the first 'To the Women In My Life' a few years ago to great success and, since those people have changed somewhat in the interim, I decided to do another. This is by no means a comprehensive list of every person with a vagina I know. Quite frankly, addressing every one of those friends, family, assorted concubines, and otherwise unlikable people would be very time-consuming and I just don't have the energy for it.
Obviously I didn't put names on the above, and I did that for the sake of not giving a shit whether you know who I'm talking about or not. Rest assured, if you're there it's probably not that hard to figure out which one you may be. If you're really concerned, by all means, just ask me. I'm an open book.
If you'd like to apply for the next edition of this ongoing piece, drop me a line. I'll tell you all about the application process and the required 35 hours of community service, as well as the different communities in my brain that offer opportunities. Have a wonderful day.
Yours,
-S.R.
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