Nights like these, I can't tell if I love her or if I love being in pain.
I'm obsessed equally with the faint, well-disguised grief in her laughter
and obsessed with the cruelty she inflicts on me, and never give answers.
She doesn't have Truth within her. She doesn't comprehend it.
To her, reality is equal parts what we believe
and what we can convince others to believe.
And she makes me believe that maybe, just maybe,
there is someone left alive on this godforsaken place
who still thinks I deserve to be loved by her.
Her seduction is more malicious
than anything a sane person could conceive of.
She knows that I need to hit the bed as soon as possible,
but hours ago she asked me with pitifully pure eyes
to not go to sleep when I get home,
because she'd be back at her place later,
and she truly made it seem like I was special
for being the person she asked to spend the night with.
But the truth is that she just didn't wish to be alone.
Scary things happen in dark places - the times are changing,
and the zeitgeist of this coming midnight is one of chaos,
of the entropy of all systems - all order - we have around ourselves,
which is why someone painted a wall on the street outside her flat
like an abstract work of art, with the most artistic use of bullets imaginable.
So she hates being there alone all those nights. Who wouldn't?
It's not like it's a secret that I have never been able to sleep well alone,
while she readily agrees that the night she spent with her arms around my neck,
us lying on the sofa after hitting up the bakery at four AM,
our bodies so close that we could feel our souls leaving our vessels
as our souls began embracing each other too.
It didn't matter that I was wake for over three hours
where I literally just stayed still and refused to move,
because her being so secure with such intimacy,
that we both know that going forward into
the territory of sexuality, is something neither of us need.
Being so close that her breath would reach my heart
and from my heart travel across my entire body,
is possibly the only time I have felt rested and well-slept
in the way that normal people describe it,
in over fifteen years.
So when she isn't giving me an answer on what her plans are:
whether she's still set on eventually coming home
so that she can get me to come over, and we can rest again truly;
or if she's gotten lost inside the confusion of her own brain
making her fly around the human world like an outsider
who doesn't belong anywhere in particular,
meaning she'd decide to stay away, god knows where,
at least until morning.
How cruel isn't it? Intimacy I mean.
Intimacy between two people who don't want to live,
and have acknowledged that life is impossible right from the start,
when we don't rely on each other.
Such strong intimacy that it keeps us alive.
How cruel it is, making me sit in silence
for hours upon hours, unable to make contact.
Making me feel like I owe it to us both to wait
until she can tell me if she changed her plans for the night or not.
Despite having not slept for five days now,
I am still sitting here, writing about the frustration
of being locked into my own sense of responsibility
in that I never break what I've agreed to without saying something,
thus forcing me to wait until I can't wait any longer.
I don't even know if it's physically possible to do so,
to keep the word I took on when I agreed with her earlier tonight,
I don't know if I can actually stay neither sane or awake until she calls.
Or if there's any way her call even can get through.
I still have no choice but to sit here, waiting.
For two reasons, honestly.
For her sake - her not feeling unsafe when alone
in an apartment that has been broken into six time sin three weeks,
when I could be there and in sync with her instead.
And we would both feel warm, and safe.
Which is why the second reason comes to play -
I don't know how to sleep alone anymore.
Not without feeling like death is the only solution
to the terror within me from hearing the screaming ghosts
trying to reach out to me from the abyss in my chest;
And the ghosts? They are angry at me.
Or at least, disappointed with my lack of ruthlessness.
I can hurt people without feeling any remorse whatsoever
if the person deserves to feel pain and fear - I revel in that feeling.
And I happily accept being called a monster too.
But that doesn't change the nature of my problem either.
No matter if I am a devil or a saint, the fact is that I will wait.
I will wait until my body collapses, like it has done several times today.
But this time collapsing for a final time, with no turning back.
I can be anything, because good and evil doesn't matter.
The only thing matters is that I will sit here, waiting.
Waiting for her call, even if it means I reach the sixth day in a row awake.
Because few things are as scary as the idea of going in bed without support now.
Without her in my embrace and me within hers, I can't fight the demons inside me.
I can't' even pretend that the demons in my head aren't the ones in charge.
Because I am so scared of sleeping alone now,
that even if I sincerely believe she won't reach out at all until morning,
I am still going to wait until I simply can't stay awake anymore.
If I am lucky, the exhaustion will be so deep by then,
that it's the last time I will ever have to fall asleep again.
Fall asleep alone, again.
It's such a beautiful picture - the imagined future of me,
simply being alive, surrounded by hope and love.
Because someone is capable of supporting that weight,
like I support hers.
Afraid beyond words that this is the last time I get a chance
to vent my rage with the people of this world
that tell me they care, that they're here for me,
all those people, at so many funerals,
and here I am waiting for a phone call.
One that is likely not gonna show.
And the despair within me is deeper than
the bonds between parents and child -
it is so overbearing, so presumptuous.
That even I can tell that the world is mocking me.
Figrues, right? The world mocking me for being so weak.
So weak that I suffer for having someone closer to me than blood family,
yet conceited enough to believe I actually deserve having anyone care.
So honestly, I can't help thinking about it. That burning question.
Is this the last time? Will I enter infinity from this shroud of solitude,
realizing that it's really true that no one genuinely cares as much as they say.
Considering how scared of my body's condition - yet how much I want it to end -
I can't help but feel the cold sweat down my neck, to the tune of Her silence.
And I am starting to give up all hope on a night that ends well.
Because as it looks now, dying would be a mercy.
At least that way, I wouldn't have to be in bed on my own,
with emptiness and loneliness the only tangible thing there with me.
If it ended like this, I do wonder though.
Would she ever be able to forget
that she never told me of the changed plans,
despite knowing my obsessive compulsions to follow said plans.
Would anyone who has ever pretended to care about me
be okay with the idea of me having to sleep alone,
having intimate relations with the reality
that is me not being worth the effort to inform,
despite knowing that putting me in a place where there are plans
but I don't get to see and understand the timeline,
meaning that I am so alone in here that
suicide is probably the only option that doesn't damage me further.
The only option that means I won't suffer nights like this again,
nights of broken words and a distance that feels insurmountable,
a night where nothing knows what it is to be alone truly, until
they themselves have to sleep alone as well.
Then realizing, that it's actually better to just die quickly
than dying slowly like I feel like I am right now.
The exposé of a bleeding soul. I don't read long poems unless they can pull me in from the start, which this poem did. It isn't fully linear or entirely coherent; rather, it ebbs and flows in and out of conscious prose and unconscious thought, much like I would expect from someone dealing with deep inner battles and not sleeping for nights on end. As someone who was severely depressed for many years and would figuratively unravel over and over again, surviving on scattered and too little sleep, this poem scares me a little bit. It takes me back to a place I am familiar with, but I have left behind. It's a place for the lost. A place for fluctuating between immense sorrow and dejected hopelessness. Feeling too much or not feeling at all, but nothing in between. It's a place that has gathered dust because one day I was able to leave and close the door behind me, but that door will always remain at the back of my mind, waiting for me to return and fall back into the kind of despair that mirrors addiction. Almost impossible to escape.
Incredible write. It is a powerfully personal poem.
You're so f*ing spot on. Especially on there never being any in between. That's why I struggle to write these days too. I either feel absolutely nothing at all - complete and utter apathy towards *EVERYTHING* except the fiction I engross myself in - or I find myself overwhelmed with emotions to the point of complete overload.
10 months ago
This is one of if not the best poem I have ever read on this site. The depth of the story is unbelievable and the details are great. I do not know if you can nominate love poems on here, but if so I am going to nominate this tomorrow, if I can and no one beats me to it. Thank you for sharing.
I cant fully express how relieved such a response makes me. This might be the most "real" poem I have ever written, at least in many long years. It's not common for me to explode outwards in an extrovert portrayal of my private live in thus way, especially not on a whim - yet thats precisely what happened. The fact that it turned out well despite having no planning behind it, just pure truth from an explosion of real feelings, amazes me. I never write without thought and due to impulse normally, but I did this time. I guess life got too real in too many ways too suddenly and I couldn't take it anymore.
I have been awake for five nights without sleep now, more or less. My meds arent working at all. Its scary. And the fact that I am alone right now, about to try and go to bed alone again, is terrifying. The fact that the poem focuses so much on my terror of just that is telling - it says alot about where i am in my life right nwo that sleeping alone is genuinely scary.
It scare me so much that this poem had to be written, I had to put all of it into words just to not be eaten alive by my circumstances. I've said in conversation and stuff before that what I typically find in my empty bed in this room void of people, wben I enter and close my eyes, is deep despair. Not because of some lack of romantic involvement in my life, but the despair goes deeper. It is more like the empty bed and the bad sleep I get there is a symbol of how fragile my bonds with people are right now. How fragile I am. I've seen so many friends die that the empty bed reminds me that I will leave it empty too, and I don't know when. These feelings grow deeper when there exists tension due to stress and overall issues beyond anyones control affecting my most precious bond in life currently too. The one I portray in the poem.
Because I've come to a point where I'm almost at an edge, and if the last precious bond breaks for any reason, will I have any reason to live any longer? Enough to justify it to myself? I can't say I am optimistic about that. But obviously I am not there yet. Still, I have a lot of legitimate reasons to be terrified-