A Collection of Spectacles


Love shouldn’t hurt but often it feels painful for me anyway. For the first time in a while, I can’t figure out what to say.

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I remember when you talked about the value of life after your friend passed away, and I hope all you said then still resonates when you are up late and alone.

I should run away from the comfort I get when I feel like you possess me, for the betterment of us both.

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I got so high yesterday that I started zoning out during work and my client complained. I didn’t want to force myself to be a regular person today. Three seconds out the state and I’m already planning to have you in my bed. I’m not supposed to say things like that though, although I think you think about it too from time to time. All these compliments, and I still only want your attention.

A few days ago we were stuck while I exhausted all my social networks in order to try get us home. Forced cosplay as a mother, I tried to hide my fear and uncertainty. I feel more dutiful as I age, and less like I can complain about the world if I won’t do anything about it. Your humor throughout proved to be invaluable, guidance and comfort cradling me.

I’ll wait for you even though I know I don’t have to. All I think about is your mouth parted, tongue grazing mine. A thought of discomfort with almost anyone else transforms into a moment I’ll covet.

There’s a scene in Secretary that really impressed upon me as a teen, the one where Lee waits for her boss/lover in a chair as a test of her love for him. She waits for so long she wets herself in her dress, and he finds something beautiful in her willingness to show obedience to him.


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After drinking our daily pint, I became an arrogant bitch. Then I cried on and off throughout the day thinking about all the needles I shoved in your side. I hope more than anything that I haven’t shut the door on you, unclothed and emotionally open. I want to sit in your brain and touch anything you’ll let me. To be trapped in that wondrous maze forever would be an honor.

The last guy wouldn’t kiss me because he wasn’t attracted enough to me, so now the act just makes me uncomfortable, even when I want it. I flip my phone front screen facing down out of habit after having had too many fights over who was saying what to me. I can’t always cum because sometimes I dissociate which is frustrating because fucking you is like a dream. Here’s the part when I unfairly drop you in a field full of trauma and my poor decisions. It’s hard to feel like I’m in competition with everyone else to get to know you. I want to be held bare (what a new feeling) and I’ll write a thousand posts to prove it.

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I’m obsessive so it’s best I channel my efforts towards a hobby and not a person. I do this thing where I delete apps off my phone when I’m nervous. Hearing that ping, a dating app mating call, cuts through the silence. I want to connect but I can’t reach through. If you dig deep enough, is it even worthwhile? Another day, another chance to fail at curbing my vices. We talked a lot about how secretive we could be and now you shy away when I’m too close to your phone. He said I was fucked up for cheating on him and writing about it. For all of my complaints, I could never give up my freedom for the affection of another, as imperfect as such a concept is. I guess I should focus less on changing for others and more on improving myself, or something like that.

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I always follow up admissions of happiness with an acknowledgment of how strange that is. Should I be totally honest with someone who admits, in their dedication to honesty towards me, will never care about anyone but themselves?

Everything seems like gesturing, sometimes. I’m tired of being placated. My biggest pet peeve is men giving me disingenuous comments about my work in order to fuck me.  I figured I was one out of three, not one out of ten. I hate sex.

Boys and their antics are less frightening the second time around. They give themselves away easily, or maybe it’s just easier to examine situations I’ve been in before.

You have to read in order to get to know me because I can’t explain my feelings succinctly sometimes, even though I talk incessantly. Everyone’s fucked up. Seems like everyone wants to want someone who doesn’t want them at all.

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Laying around stoned, again. I’ve finally had the energy to clean. I haven’t left the house in a day or two. I’ve avoided getting groceries for longer. I’ve ordered in and supplemented my bad habits with the only thing I know how to: more work.

I have to be ginger. Interactions sometimes possess more naïveté than I’m used to. I don’t know how to change, even though I’d like to. I look like an asshole either way. Love and envy are terrible siblings. I play a stupid and risky game every time, fetishizing too close to reality. I hate myself for loving the rush I get when he fucks me. I don’t want to burden you with my brokenness and cynicism. My relationships with older men are annoyingly patronizing and my relationships with men my age are similar to war.


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I’m going to try and be a happier person, even if I have to fake it for a bit. I’m feeling a little better, anyway. I’ve been taking st john’s and not skipping any days.

I can’t criticize others for being negative and then not work on that aspect of myself. Believe it or not, I used to be more positive.

I keep thinking about love, despite my better efforts. What a motivating factor, more so the more complicated it is. I need effort and reliability. I want to use but sometimes I will settle for being used. I wish I didn’t have to coax attention out of you. I’m fearful of losing  the most important people in my life. Drifting away seems worse than a volatile split. I want to know how you feel, but it seems like neither of us want to jump first. I can’t beg or force things. This is the hardest lesson for me to learn. I have trouble tempering obsession.

When I was young, I would sometimes spend the sabbath with my grandmother, and I’d watch her run through her routine of prayers and rituals. We would take a small vase and wash our hands, alternating between the right and left, one after the other. I want you to dump the more “unsavory” aspects of your sexual interests on top of me. Let me lay in bed before you, open and ready, a willing conduit for your desires.

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Everyone can see on my face when I’m pissed. I got so drunk I can’t feel anything but anger. Maybe I should take a break from the internet. K found this stupid shit. What do I have to say for myself? Nothing, other than I’m an awful girlfriend but at least I’ve realized it now. I can’t fuck as much as I want to, constant pain in my body stops me. My only solace is wrapped up in grief, how fitting. If I don’t learn to bite my tongue I’ll die a grifter.

I let you know all the ways in which everyone is fucking me over and then you fucked me over too. Fucking shit. I wanted to be naked emotionally to match my unclothed form when we fuck too, but forget it. I can’t trust anyone. No wonder everyone in nyc is so jaded.

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In the space between the first time I meet someone and when I fuck them, I’m watching carefully, tracing lines of desire across their skin. The things that we do while we fuck are our kin, birthed from interactions between us, molded and shaped by every exchange. Verbal transactions during seemingly mundane moments are exposed during that physical dance we do.

I can’t wait to let loose on my bf sexually like I used to. Smother him under the weight of my ass. Tell him I want to get filled with cum whenever I feel like it and he can’t stop me. We both know the only way I can get wet at this point is through degrading him. We’re just dancing around the obvious, cosplaying like normal people, humping away. If he wants me to stay regardless, that’s what it’ll have to be. He wants it anyway. That’s the thing about submission, it’s really you placing vested interest in something (abstractly incapsulated in another human) that you would give up everything for.

I love to top primarily anyway, but I fear if I sub to you I’ll expose myself to shitty treatment. Instead I wait, jumping from app to app, site to site, leaving digital breadcrumbs. Fearful as always, because straight men hate whores. It’s a fact. I could fantasize about spreading my legs, watching you move my hips all day. I’m more infantile in some ways, I’m sure. Sending songs, pressing play, watching a billion things that probably don’t belong to me. Open me up and let me soak you in, not in a desperate way, but with a slow confidence, the way flowers naturally tilt towards the sun.


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