To most I give nothing – the surface, the mundane, strange yet superficial banter – if I say anything at all. To few I offer more – the walls have been intricately built since I was carried away from her at three months of age. There are only two who I have found a way past those walls to show even more – more than I wanted to. Both went away. One in marriage and good tidings, one in an unforgivable silence.

Still, they want to know for some reason.



It brings nothing but fear. Fear and – hope? No.

Seldom hope.

There is a feeling – an indescribable feeling that I get. Twice. No, three times. One on thanksgiving night of 2000, one a bit more recently. The third while eating a salad at a café in Berkeley, somewhere around 1986. In the window, alone, facing the sidewalk. A woman walked by, looked at me, smiled. Chills. In wondering what to do, in being the shy and insecure little boy with nothing to offer that I was, I hesitated too long. I jumped up leaving my half eaten salad behind, fully aware and self-conscious of the imagined and real stares that followed me. I ran outside, up the block in the direction she was heading. I searched, in stores, around corners, stood still and tried to feel her, ran frantically and found nothing.

She was gone.

I can’t believe I still remember that.

There needs to be that feeling. It is rare, it is sacred, it cannot be forgotten, apparently. It runs thick, saturates, it becomes me.

three times.

Still, some want to know me, for some reason. I give nothing.

What do they see?

This was a message I received from someone who was a good acquaintance, almost someone I would consider a friend but didn’t want because I am who I am – I leave – and sometimes an annoyance if she interrupted me when I was reading, or simply busy being alone. She’s sexy as hell, but still, that is far from enough. Flesh is only flesh. Flesh is fun, but I need more. I don’t want love. Love is self-centered unless you love yourself more than anything or anyone. I don’t want the kind of love that is only to be loved. We say “I love you” hoping for the same answer in reply. Love me. Love me. Love me. Fuck you.
Don’t. Love yourself. Then I will believe. I don’t want you to love me. Say it while we’re fucking and I’ll spit in your face and call you a liar. This has nothing to do with her. tangents. Fuck you.

I love you.

That has nothing to do with her.


Rants, raves, I spit the inside out. I scoop the bile off of the surface and fling it at my computer, at you. I taste better after, the recipe calls for it. Clear the sauce. It’s all about the sauce.

This was a message I received from someone who I am now pleased to call a friend. A good one. We talked last night, we laughed, cried, played. She asked a question and seconds later a tear dropped on my jeans, then she told me of her. Her story, and why she asked that particular question. I answered. We became friends. I told her it was the way she wrote that allowed me to talk to her. The question she asked chipped the wall and water fell on my jeans. She called me her muse. She doesn’t need me. Silly girl. Beautiful girl.

A new friend.

i want to see you, tonight, tomorrow, soon. i want to watch you on some small screen, i want to see you all made up, a vision in white white white the way you are in my head. all in white like a blushing bride, like a muslim in mourning, like a ghost slipping between tree. white like the smoke in my brain, evidence of the fires in my heart, my soul.

i want to lay with you, feeling impossibly small, impossibly new. i want to look up at you beautiful face and marvel at each small line, each pore, each and every hair on your chin.

i want to look you in the eyes and wonder why god is so fucking cruel. so kind. i want to look you in the eyes and see. i want you to look me in the eyes and tell me if it is cruelty or kindness that brought you here.

not just because i miss the sound of your voice, the softness of your skin, the strenth of your terribly thin arms around me, arms like snakes. not just because i miss your mouth on my body, your fingers on my throat. nor just because you told me to come, and i did.

because i miss sharing my time, my self, with you. i miss having your time, your self. because you have been a friend to me. because i have learned many things from you. because i want to belive our paths will cross again, a dozen times. because you mean something to me, and the things you write make me fearful.

i want to see you. tonight, tomorrow, soon. i want to watch you eat. i want to watch you think and smile and frown. i want to watch you move. watch you breathe. i want to remember you. i want to laugh and frown with you, and remember.

and i want to scream at you. i want to throw your bottles and tear at the clothes you wear. i want to rage at you. i want to hit you, to hurt you, to hate you. i want to pull the mask from your face. i want to cut you own words into your flesh. you want to bleed so badly. bleed for me.

i want to show you MY scars, MY fears.

i want to make you see that little girl of fifteen in her underwear, hiding beneath the bed, laying in grime and sweat. bleeding on to the floor, into her eyes. i want you to see the broken glass everywhere. i want to show you her lacerated fingers, her breasts, her thighs, her FUCKING FACE. the spiderweb of shallow cuts and gouges that somehow healed so perfectly, traceless.

i want to show you the abyss that I teter on. i want to impress upon you the sense of hopelessness when i realized at 18 that my will to live had failed me and my VERY BODY was waging war upon itself. no infection required: my own brain is a virus to this cage of flesh and blood. keeping my ill, or at the least, weak. killing off my red blood cells. degrading my glands. god knows what else. how do you fight out own stubborn, wild physical form, except with a stubborn, wild persistance of spirit? do you know how afraid i am of loosing direction? if i do not keep running, will all the roads die out and dissappear from beneath my feet? i am afraid to stop, afraid to rest my heart. what else will keep me go? for all that i am calm outside, i am raging….

and maybe i want you to rage at me, as if i were her, for not loving you enough. maybe i want you to spit in MY face, crush ME in your embrace. atleast i would appreciate your vehemance, rather than minimalizing it, rather than reducing your passions into mere “melodrama.” i want the evidence of the will that keeps YOU going.

because it would be nice to see who you really are when not politely entertaining my company. who you are when you are forcably being you.

because it would be nice to finally meet someone with as much thunder in their heart as i have. and i think you do.

even if you are a fool who savors his darkness, a fool who looks for the mirrors of it. as if love has to be some cathartic sharing of mutual suffering, as if that is what it takes to understand.

i preffer to believe love is empathy and appreciation. i am well aware of my darkness. and i can recognize a mirror when i see it. but i’d rather be a skylight, fuck-you-very-much. any mirror can be a window if one chooses to scrape the metal from beneath….

and i only have three weeks left to experience your self. to love you unconditionally. and then you will leave, and all i will have are your stupid fucking words. not your expressive face, not the smoke of your voice or the windows of your eyes. only your gods damned blogs. only your hateful, hurtful, rants. only your random quizilla results and drunk recaps. and i know those aren’t what makes you YOU.

i don’t want to be one of your great loves. please do not misunderstand me, becuse that it not the issue at hand. i have had my fill of being helen, juliette, desdemona. i don’t wish for that power nor position.

(besides: you’re a bird, i’m a cat… these things never work out.)

i just want you to quit being polite ALL THE TIME, is all. i dance and dance and dance with everyone. it would be nice, now and then, for everyone to just be forward. forthcoming. frank. i wish i knew better what i am trying to say.

i want you to tell me that i was entertaining, but not enough to make you care outside if this month, or else i want you to tell me to visit you, because i made you happy in some small way and am worth keeping in your thoughts.

and when i write out my thoughts to you, i want no more “thank yous.” no more “that was lovelys.” i want some genuine response.

tell me i am a friend to you. or tell me to fuck off. tell me we have things to express, to share, things to learn from each other, that you would like our roads to cross again. or tell me i bore you or irritate you, or even that i am dragging you backwards from the road you want to walk. a or b.

i want to see you, tonight, tomorrow, soon. forgive MY honesty. forgive MY vehemance. or don’t.


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