Thursday, September 10, 2009

I'm still broken. Still crazy. Still stunned and shaking. Still awake. I want the blood to flow, yet I don't want to clean up the mess of saddened friends...and I hate being dehydrated. I want to smash the mirrors. I feel beautiful and ugly, just as he is both beautiful and ugly; he's made me ugly. I want to know every detail. Part of me craves every word, action deed that went on behind my back; reclaiming them as my own...but my body is repulsed. I've jacked off dozens of times imagining watching him fuck other people, but the fantasy was tainted when he did so without my involvement or knowledge. I know I'm sick for thinking suck things. I want to ask him to leave. I want to beg him to stay. I wish I could sort out the Michael I knew from the Collin that fucked them. Part of me desires him, while part of me recoils from his touch; the touch that touched so many others before I knew the truth. I've always loved his cock and it never bothered me that he'd had so many lovers before me, because he was mine now and we were careful, and safe, and it had to be better than the others because we loved each other and I held his hand in public. Only now I think he was never really just mine. For less than 2 months he was mine.

People keep asking me what I need. I think I need time. Time to make the nightmare visions stop flooding my brain. Time to shake the disease from my mind; from my trembling hands. Everything is numb, yet amplified to an agonizing extreme. It's as if my Michael was only a dream.

Why can't I shake this off? Why can't I run? Why can't I eat? Why can't I sleep? Why can't I just stop and let this shit go? Nothing seems to matter.

I glance at the clock at random and it's 3:39 AM. At 3:39am, just 3 days ago, Michael said hello to Dave: "hey what up". I can't even look at the clock without being stabbed in the gut.

Part of me feels proud that I haven't picked up the knife I dream about. Part of me feels cowardly; disgusted with myself for thinking it, and even more so for not just doing it. My thoughts jumble through my head and collide; often times, completely contradicting the thought before.

Mollie says I'm grieving. That sounds about right. I'm grieving for the man I loved who didn't exist. Or he existed for nearly 2 months and then died without me noticing... How could I not have noticed? How could I not have known? I feel so stupid and dirty...and now a tear falls. I've shed only 5 tears so far. They threaten to boil up out of me, and I may feel better once they do, but I'm afraid of what I'll do if I give in a lose control.

I think I need help, yet I want to be alone. Everything seems so pointless now. I know I've felt this way before, but I don't remember how I found my way out and I'm lost inside my own head. Every now and again a voice breaks through, be it Mark, Mollie or Michael; the MMM. When their voices reach me I have moments of relief. But then the moments pass and the madness devours me again. I wonder if this is how my father lost his mind...

4:02am. 3 days and 20 minutes after he told Dave he'd meet him in 20 minutes. 3 days ago at this time he was driving or arriving...diving down on the floor. And the sad thing is, it wasn't the first time, or the 2nd, or the 3rd. He's sleeping behind me right now. He wanted to be sure I wouldn't hurt myself, but I don't have to use a knife to do that. I'm suffering right now.

Just give me time. Just give me time.

   posted by Bald Jason at 04:02 AM
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