The Four Walls Soliloquy

Whine whine, b***h b***h.

What in the serious f**k, am I supposed to do now?

They tell me "try" but as the words come out of their mouths I see them crumble. I mean, am I supposed to just keep climbing and climbing until all the steps break off into oblivion? Do I just scratch my nails against the atmosphere until I find some kind of ethereal air lock that sucks me into space, then spin out and away becoming notorious for insignificance? I mean I've got the maps and every GPS signal floating above me telling me how to get somewhere but as soon as I start to shuffle my feet my knees dislodge I spend the afternoon goo-goneing my face from the pavement. 

I try, and I try and I try, but every time I start to do something for myself some part of my consciousness breaks off and grows legs and fangs and starts gnawing away at my ambition until I crumble into a ball of angst and anxiety and gain twenty f*****g pounds, raped by insecurity then impregnated with the self loathe and rage of a thousand limbless armies. I'm tired of it. I'm done. I'm tired of playing dead and letting the vultures pick away at my comeuppance. I can't keep allowing myself to be suffocated by the air around me, the trees offering a viable noose around my neck every time I gasp. 

I have no money. 

I have no gas. 

My tires are splitting, the threadbare beginning to grin at the pavement like the wanting teeth of Eris. I wake up every morning flailing at the world around me like The Truman Show as performed by Michael J. Fox. I'm afraid of death yet I smoke every cigarette like it's going to be my last and as I pull the trigger of every puff of smoke into my lungs I feel a little less afraid. I sit complacent as a spider carries the cancer over my body like a blanket, and I cough until my toilet's clogged with blackened organs. 

While my current emotions are playing Russian roulette my old ones are knocking back bleach like Bukowski in a laundromat. I see my way up past how I'm feeling right now but as I run towards it, it falls into the nothingness and a giant wall kicks me back to my bedroom like I reached the end of a map in some s****y PlayStation game. 

And it's not just because I just got broken up with, although I know that's what people will say. And when I tell them that the last thing I want is to ever hear from her again, people don't seem to believe me. It either comes off as a bitter bluff, or just as me trying to convince myself of it through words. 

That's not true. 

I very truly, want nothing less in the world than to never talk to her again. It isn't that I hate her, although the notion most definitely creeps up every night or so, nor is it that I have nothing to say to her. I definitely do. I don't want to ever hear from her again, because I know without a shadow of a doubt, that if I were to hear again, the tone of the tremble in her voice, her thick and steady mannerisms or the slight whine in her draw that drove me f*****g crazy whenever I was mad at her, I would never recover. 

I tell everyone who goes through something like this to Sever All Ties, three words that imply something so devastating and impossible, I can taste the bullshit as it rolls of my tongue. Three words made only bullshit by their happening of coming out of my mouth. I've done it before, and that's what I tell everyone. But what I don't tell them, is that I had the Kettering Behavioral Medicine Center, my counselors, friends and family all monitoring me, making damn sure that her caller ID collects f*****g cobwebs.

 It's bullshit because I can't imagine ever having to do it again. This time, I got lucky. I got lucky that the night, a week or so after we split when she called me, I was so f*****g stoned that I couldn't see my hand in front of me and had the pseudo strength to do the right thing in telling her to f**k off. 

She found someone else. I knew she would. Doesn't mean that I felt the kick in the chest or the stab in the back any less. I gave her three years of my life, and for my efforts, I got to limp away with the emotional fortitude of a sheltered child, the trust like that of a beaten schoolgirl, and all good memories of which to hold,  shattered by a view more clear than before. 

She got to be happy. 

I understand how she can be with someone else. I mean s**t, after all, I had front row seats to the all access premier of her falling out of love with me. I saw her image flicker at my touch under soft focus and award winning cinematography. I witnessed Aronofsky accept his award for the portrayal of the way her flame dwindled each time our lips collided. They didn't fit together like some celestial puzzle or mesh like vibrant colors, they f*****g crashed. Our love was vehicular homicide and while my ribcage was broken and prepped for CPR she took off on the f*****g Bat-Pod. 

So I'll continue to listen to the same skipping records, avoiding every piece of music that ever brought light to her eyes because honestly, her taste in music f*****g sucked anyway. I'll staple the organs back into my chest and strive to survive wearing a giant heart on my sleeve and a perpetual target across my face. 

F**k it.