killing the love

I am the love killer,
I am murdering the music we thought so special,
that blazed between us, over and over.
I am murdering me, where I kneeled at your kiss.
I am pushing knives through the hands
that created two into one.
Our hands do not bleed at this,
they lie still in their dishonor.
I am taking the boats of our beds
and swamping them, letting them cough on the sea
and choke on it and go down into nothing.
I am stuffing your mouth with your
promises and watching
you vomit them out upon my face.
The Camp we directed?
I have gassed the campers.

Now I am alone with the dead,
flying off bridges,
hurling myself like a beer can into the wastebasket.
I am flying like a single red rose,
leaving a jet stream
of solitude
and yet I feel nothing,
though I fly and hurl,
my insides are empty
and my face is as blank as a wall.

Shall I call the funeral director?
He could put our two bodies into one pink casket,
those bodies from before,
and someone might send flowers,
and someone might come to mourn
and it would be in the obits,
and people would know that something died,
is no more, speaks no more, won't even
drive a car again and all of that.

When a life is over,
the one you were living for,
where do you go?

I'll work nights.
I'll dance in the city.
I'll wear red for a burning.
I'll look at the Charles very carefully,
weraing its long legs of neon.
And the cars will go by.
The cars will go by.
And there'll be no scream
from the lady in the red dress
dancing on her own Ellis Island,
who turns in circles,
dancing alone
as the cars go by.

"killing the love" by Anne Sexton

fade, made to fade - passion's overrated anyway...

keeping passion at bay or surrendering blindly to it - which of these two attitudes is the least destructive? i don't know.*

it's over. you didn't say the words, nor did he. you didn't even say goodbye. it didn't seem necessary. you just drifted out of his life and he didn't stop you.

you keep wondering whether you wish he had. you know the relationship was dying. there wasn't much to begin with and certainly not enough to last more than a few months. it ran its course. as with all things in life, it died.

you feel like you made a mistake. you feel like you found someone perfect and let him go, because of your inability to let them inside your head and your heart. you tried. you really tried, a lot of times, to open up, to let your guard down. you didn't quite manage.

nor did he.

you miss him. you miss the easy conversation, the quick smiles, the laughter, the sarcasm, the humor. you miss his rambling. you miss him being inside you. you miss him breathing heavily on top of you. you miss him whispering things in the night. you miss watching him sleep and waking up to see him smiling at you.

but you don't miss him enough to cry about it. and you always cry, at the end of each relationship. lately though, it feels like you cry less and less. you wish your heart were breaking right now, but it isn't. it wasn't even really involved throughout. and that is also something that happens more often.

lately, all you do is go through the motions. your heart's becoming an unreachable place. or an empty place. you want someone to touch you, your soul, be inside you, in all the ways possible, but you've worked so hard on preventing hurt, that now, even when you're craving hurt, pain, or any sort of feeling, it seems impossible.

you think you loved him. just a little bit. you love each man you've been intimate with. but you love them less and less.

is it all getting reduced to just the act then? will eventually, all you'll have left is sex, devoid of any emotion at all?

you don't want to share your body with anyone now. you just want life to stop right now. you want to get off this train. you bought into the poster, the preview, the sales pitch, you bought the ticket thinking you'd get true love, each fucking time.

all you're left with though, each time, are some memories.

it's not even him. it's the fact that another relationship is over. and you'll have to start all over again, with someone new.

it is so fucking tiresome.

you wish we all came with manuals. these are the right buttons to push, this is our past, these are our happy memories and things that made us sad, and on page 62 are things that we feel strongly about.

just the idea of sharing everything again weighs you down.

you're thinking 'never agian' but you already know that's a lie.

(quote from 'eleven minutes', paulo coelho)

lover i don't have to love

You write such pretty words
But life's no story book
Love's an excuse to get hurt
And to hurt
Do you like to hurt?
I do I do
Then hurt me
(bright eyes)

i know we're both afraid. i would soothe your fears if i wasn't so paralysed by my own. i wish i could tell you that i would never hurt you, but i can't. such promises are broken far easier than they're made.

is it better not to try? is it better to let it fade? should we just go on like this, without emotion, and let the possibility of love just go by? should we abandon our dreams, built on silly fairytales? should we just admit that they were all lies? or should we confront our demons? should we take that risk?

what would be the point, if we did? do we really want to go any further, what purpose would it serve? we would only end in tears and pain. that is inevitable.

perhaps its just better to walk away.

there usually isn't much to gain.

it wouldn't ever have been worth it, anyway.

dissolved girl

shame, such a shame
i think i kind of lost myself again
day, yesterday
really should be leaving but i stay

you wish that he would look the part of the big bad wolf; you wish he’d look like he will cheat on you and trample all over your heart or dump you in a week or two. you wish he wouldn’t be gentle and kind. and you wish he wouldn’t look so goddamn vulnerable when he slept – that really is the fucking killer. he snores gently and shifts and you just keep looking over, playing with his hair and smiling like a goofy idiot.

say, say my name
i need a little love to ease the pain

you lie together, after the dirty deed has been done. you love this part. you love that closeness. you want to hang onto those moments, immediately after sex, where he’s a little bit breathless and hugs you close and kisses you.

lazy post-coital conversation follows. he tends to ramble on a bit about the most irrelevant things (well, they seem to have no relevance to sex, at least). he tells you about the score that he really liked, of a jim jarmmusch film where johnny depp played a character called william blake who ran into an american indian called nobody, who mistakes him for the famous poet. you make a note to look it up the next day, on google and imbd (like the little nerd that you are).

'cause it feels like i've been
i've been here before
you are not my savior
but i still don't go

you lie together in the bath...there is absolutely nothing that makes you happier than sinking into warm water, surrounded by bubbles, in candlelight, with a smoke in one hand and wine in the other. both of you are still where you started off. nothing has changed. perhaps a little less self-conscious, perhaps a little more comfortable. but just as afraid.

somehow, the subject of how convenient this is comes up. you’re the one who uses that word, and he doesn’t like it. you elaborate. “its convenient cause at least i know i am getting laid once a week”. he still doesn’t like it and says that he’s in it because it's fun, nice and enjoyable, not cause of the convenience factor. you almost feel ashamed, for trying so hard to be the tough beyatch.

feels like something
that i've done before
i could fake it
but i still want more

when you’re with him and even when away from him, you’re strong and fun and independent. sleep always fucks it up though. perhaps it's because your defenses are down, at the end of the day. it's not just when you're with him - even when you sleep all alone in your big bed, you think of him. you think of where this is going, how it will end, and what’s next.

and whenever you sleep next to him, you keep waking up, as he shifts, to see him smiling sleepily at you or looking absolutely angelic in his sleep, and you just melt...

fade, made to fade
passion's overrated anyway...

(song lyrics from "dissolved girl" by massive attack).

whoring yourself to fill the void

made love last night
wasn't good
wasn't bad
intimate strangers
make me kinda sad

you are constantly fighting with yourself. you keep repeating "this is just lust". you almost believe it. you have settled into a comfortable relationship, which means that you fuck twice or thrice a week. you never ask him what he does on the other days. it has been almost two months but you never ask whether he has been sleeping with anyone else. it seems too intrusive. and more than that, affirmation of your suspicions would require some sort of an action. you could either reconcile with the fact or you could leave. neither seem terribly tempting options, at the moment.

you lie together in the bath. all the elements are there - the candle, the smokes, the alcohol, the interesting conversation, the beautiful boy. you wonder whether you're being too greedy to wish that there had been some emotion.

you are not asking for love. you don't want love. you're not ready to give it. but a part of you aches constantly for it. a part of you aches to sleep with someone who cares about you. a part of you desperately wants to be with someone who wants to hear your voice.

you miss the passion. you keep revisiting old relationships in your mind, you keep opening locked doors, reminscing about the abandoned lovemaking, kissing sessions that lasted hours, and the laughters, and the love.

you just really miss the passion...

you wish you weren't so afraid. and he wasn't so afraid. you hope you don't fuck up again, and fall in love with love. you hope you don't make him the object of your desire for all the wrong reasons.

you just want to remain in this "comfortable relationship" forever. even if it means that each time you leave his house, you wonder whether someone else will be coming in to take up your side of the bed...

volcanoes melt me down

you spend the entire evening, convincing yourself you don't want to be with him. you go to clubs, to bars, to friends places. nothing distracts you enough. you give in and go to his place. walk into his room; he looks adorable, sleeping. you wake him up and put on the cd you bought for him. damien rice's voice floods the room; he sings "i can't take my eyes off of you" and you avoid looking at him. you don't want him to think you're getting romantic here.

you spend the next two hours talking...you can't even remember about what, anymore. perfection. he said there was no such thing or that it was unattainable. you had disagreed. you said that we all experienced moments which were perfect. where nothing was lacking. and THAT was perfection. no one had said that it was meant to be eternal or everlasting. but it was there, nonetheless.

you talk about masks - we all wear one. you wonder what lies underneath, what is the real YOU or him? he says that we're a collection of our masks. underneath lies only our soul, perhaps. you wonder why we have so much faith in our judgments, what makes us think that the mask chosen for a certain occasion is the one that would work best. what if your own mask of the cold, unemotional bitch was the wrong one to wear. what if you took it off? or replaced it with another one? would it work just as well? would it be better or worse?

you fall off to sleep...each time you open your eyes, he's looking at you and he kisses you and tells you that you're beautiful. you smile sleepily...and feel like asking him whether he agreed that this was perfection? you hold that thought back and drift off to sleep. it's safer.

rejection

you spend two hours doing nothing but kissing and caressing each other. you are overwhelmed by an absolutely irrational sense of jealousy at anyone else who has been touched like this by him. you wonder whether he is as gentle with every girl or may be you're special. you can already sense that this will be the best sex you've had. and you're right. you lie together like strangers right after, searching for things to talk about, because the cuddling doesn't come naturally to either of you. he tells you about how he likes the fact that you're anti-cuddling and prolonged intercourse. you smile to yourself as you realize that your hard bitch act has worked fairly well.

the next day, you see him with another girl. you see them dancing and talking. you pretend that you're having a lot of fun and are oblivious to their presence. you see them leave together and are consumed by a desire to follow them. you go out to your car, and pass his - they're sitting together in it, chatting. your world crashes. you know you don't love him or even like him, particularly. but you did share something special the night before, and his ability to forget that confounds you. are all men like this? there is no commitment yet there should be a sense of respect for someone you sleep with. perhaps you're terribly old fashioned. perhaps you expect too much. perhaps you give too little and want more in return. perhaps you shouldn't play the unemotional bitch anymore; does he not know that you would feel jealousy and rejection, if nothing else? is it okay to feel this hurt, when it's just sex? do you even want more than that? do you even want to give him that respect and commitment in return?

you spend the rest of the night talking to someone else. pretending to be busy. playing games. you're so tired of this bullshit, this constant act, this desire to let no one close. you're so tired of the hurt. you wish you didn't feel. you want to rid yourself of all emotions, cleanse yourself of that which makes you ache all over.

you return to your bed, alone, tonight. you wonder whether he is alone. you wonder whether he's thinking about you, if he is.

sex without love

How do they do it, the ones who make love
without love? Beautiful as dancers,
gliding over each other like ice-skaters
over the ice, fingers hooked
inside each other's bodies, faces
red as steak, wine, wet as the
children at birth whose mothers are going to
give them away. How do they come to the
come to the come to the God come to the
still waters, and not love
the one who came there with them, light
rising slowly as steam off their joined
skin? These are the true religious,
the purists, the pros, the ones who will not
accept a false Messiah, love the
priest instead of the God. They do not
mistake the lover for their own pleasure,
they are like great runners: they know they are alone
with the road surface, the cold, the wind,
the fit of their shoes, their over-all cardio-
vascular health--just factors, like the partner
in the bed, and not the truth, which is the
single body alone in the universe
against its own best time.

sex without love by sharon olds

pizza?

you wait for him outside his house. he's late. you know he'll show up, apologize profusely, smile that cute smile and stick his lower lip out in an attempt to get you to forgive him. but you know he doesn't mean it. he doesn't really care. you're supposed to meet for a fuck. oh sorry, the euphemism for that is a pizza and a movie. but really, there wont be either. you're still at too early a stage to lose the pretense. you are almost tired of playing the hard bitch. the one that he thinks is such a challenge and can't wait to get inside. inside your body, inside your head and inside your heart. he wants to break down all the doors, break you down. and then leave. isn't that how the story goes? everyone wants to get to "know" you. like "really" get to know you. and you figure that this time they really do mean it. and you let all those defenses down. you open the doors. and you let them in. it seems like a good idea. but it never is. you've done this over and over again. and this time, you're really, truly tired. tired of the games, the rush, the love, the fun, the newness of it all and then the inevitable monotony. the death of the relationship. the death of the love that was supposed to be everlasting.

this time, you're truly a hard bitch. you have vowed to never, ever let it happen again. you're sick of the break ups and the make ups. this time, you will just be like everyone else. cold. removed. tough. strong. you may be quaking inside. you may be scared. you may be at the precipice but you will not fall. you will not go over that edge this time. for you know that you wont be able to climb out of that abyss again. you know that you're too tired to save yourself if you fall and you know no one else will.

so you tell yourself over and over again: 'be strong'.

and you WILL be strong.

afterglow

you wake up the next morning and he's still asleep. he looks beautiful to you. and vulnerable, for once. you long to kiss his back and play with his hair but it might wake him up. and once awake, he will surely just grab you and kiss you and fuck you. because that’s all you're good for, to him. so you just enjoy the moment. savor it, really. you try and count the moles on his back. they remind you of stars, for some reason. may be cause they're impossible to count. you put your hand on his back and stare, absolutely fascinated, at the difference in color. your very, very brown hand against his very, very white skin. it somehow makes sense. perfect sense, really. but you suspect that you're the only that thinks so.

you remember snatches of last nights conversations. you remember how he confessed, in his slightly drunken state, that underneath his tough exterior (he actually preferred to call it "realistic"), there was a heart of a poet (for he is one). he was yearning to be loved. and you had responded that that was what everyone wanted. and he shouldn't dismiss it as unrealistic or even idealistic because everyone falls in love. everyone.

you remember how he wanted to know about you. how he wanted to know what you wanted. and how you responded with your usual cynicism "nothing". and when he asked "why nothing", you replied that it was only cause wanting nothing was harder than wanting most things. if you could reach a state where you truly, truly did not want anything, you'd be happy.

but you haven’t reached that state. you, unfortunately, are only human. you yearn for love and affection, like everyone else. like him. but neither of you will turn to each other. or to most other people. there's been too much hurt, too much drama, for you to bother for a while.

so you will just pretend that you don't really want anything from him. you'll play his game. you will go along with the "i'm in it for the sex" line - it works for both of you, it's easier to pretend that you don't have a heart than to admit that you do, and its right there for the taking.

you put on your clothes and leave before he can open his eyes. you don't want the morning sex, you don't want to be there to look into his eyes after what happened the night before and see nothing. you want to leave before anything else happens.

you want to leave before you fall in love.