Mongolian Metal

Mongolian Metal

He keeps it too hot in there,

So hot the backs of my knees sweat.

My forehead glistens as we throw darts.

Frankie cowers in the corner.

Franky Four Fingers.

Did anyone understand Snatch or was I just too drunk?

Once a week is not enough for this one.

I want more.

I need more.

Let’s cue up Tiger King and cuddle, shall we?

Maybe next year we’ll talk about what we are.

A few years after that we’ll say I love you.

But I love you now.

How can I love you now?

You don’t even know I exist.

His skin on mine is magic.

But he wouldn’t even know a spell.

I’m lost somewhere past Piedmont.

Send help.

Or moonshine.

I want him to tell me everything.

I want to know his everything.

Past

Present

Future

Why can’t he tell me I’m beautiful?

I know I’m beautiful.

I spent an hour making it so.

Am I dreaming?

Sometimes it feels like I’m dreaming.

Let’s start a petition.

The CDC needs to classify infatuation as a disease.

I’m sick with it.

So sick.

Why can’t he want me as much as I want him?

I’m good enough, I know I am.

I torture myself over him.

Evaluating each encounter.

Reading between the thinnest of lines.

I’m probably imaging it.

His skinny body twisting around me,

Fingertips lightly petting my flesh,

Breath wetting my ear,

My soul sings.

He’s too gentle.

I want him to slap me.

Choke me.

Pin me down so that I can't move.

I don’t want to move.

Or leave.

Ever.

I always go to him.

Will this ever change?

Once the quarantine ends

Will he take me out

So people can see me?

See us?

Who else is he seeing?

Who else is he looking at?

Touching?

Kissing?

Fucking?

I’m too afraid to ask.

I already hurt too much.

I hurt just thinking of him.

Thinking of how little he is thinking of me.

Do I know this for certain?

No.

But if it is not so,

Then he is horrible at communicating.

But then again

So am I,

For he does not know these things I’m telling you.

He doesn’t know my heart races as I speed down Ray.

That I inhale smoke like its oxygen

Because I’m so nervous.

He doesn’t know I belt love songs at the top of my lungs

As I drive home

Feeling close to tears.

I’m ashamed of myself.

I’m better than this.

All of this.

It’s not my first rodeo

And yet I never learn.

My heart must be busted.

Maybe it never grew right in the first place.

Maybe its just a mass of mutated cells clumped together in my chest

Pumping my blood,

Keeping me alive.

Barely.

When I sit on his couch

Every move feels alien.

It’s uncomfortable there.

I’m uncomfortable.

I don’t feel like myself.

I feel like a turtle

But I don’t have a shell.

No place to hide but in plain sight.

No worries, though.

He doesn’t see me anyway.

I always wanted to be invisible.

I never thought it would actually happen.

Or that if it ever did

It would suck this bad.

Oh, and who the fuck listens to Mongolian Metal, anyway?

Why do emotionally unavailable men attract me so?

Sex is too much for me.

Too much for my heart.

Sex is not love.

But for some reason I feel that it is.

And I guess I’m the only one.

Maybe its an addiction.

Men are an addiction.

Sex is an addiction.

But where is my cure?

Where is my healing?

What did I do to deserve this

Massive Attack

On my soul?

These words gush out of me

Like blood from a wound.

This is my wound.

This is my hurt.

My pain.

We laid there.

He fell asleep again

Then touched me

For what felt like forever.

His hands gliding up and down my back

So softly.

So sweetly.

The first tears are falling now.

I recall feeling them grow as I laid next to him.

My flesh screaming out to him

But it was silent.

My pores held the noise in

Refusing to let it reverberate across his walls.

Forbidding him from hearing.

The melody of my love is too holy for him.

Too good.

Too pure.

We cannot allow the notes to go to waste.

As I write this

I listen to the album I’ve heard so many times.

Because it’s good sex music.

And his favorite.

It takes me back

To lying in a sweaty pile

On his bed.

Breathing heavily.

Trying to calm our out-of-control hearts.

“You are my angel”

As he pets my hair.

Closing his eyes.

Drifting off somewhere I wish I could go too.

But I’m still in his room.

On his bed.

Counting down the minutes till I can escape

For a cigarette.

Does he love me?

Would he say if he did?

I sometimes imagine he is thinking this

As he slides his fingertips down my naked back.

Or last night

When he pulled me close

And draped an arm across my sleeping self.

I am weak for him.

So weak.

But what about him?

Do I strengthen or weaken him?

What does he feel when he answers the door?

What does he think when he kisses me?

How do I find answers to the questions

I am much too afraid to ask?

He whispers baby while we make love.

I can’t decide if he whispers so that I don’t hear

Or that he doesn’t.

Which is worse?

It’s been awhile now.

10 months of taking it slow.

What the fuck does that even mean, by the way?

All I’m asking for is some conversation.

Not the idle meaningless small talk on the couch.

Real conversation.

About our thoughts.

Feelings.

I always ask what he’s thinking.

I don’t know if he tells me the truth.

He claims to be so in touch with his mind.

Is he?

Or is he emotionally stunted?

I wish I could pour these words into him

Instead of on this page.

Yet here I am.

How many times

does his dick need to be in my ass

before we’re more than friends?

He giggles during sex.

When I ask why

He says he likes to please me.

He likes to watch me.

But my head could be on fire

And he wouldn’t know.

We fucked last night

And it was so primal.

So urgent.

He holds my hands

As he thrusts himself

Into me.

We text everyday now.

He wishes me a good morning

And good night

Everyday.

Our ritual has shifted.

It’s no longer a coy game.

It’s a

“Ready for bed?”

Naked

Sex

Cuddles

Kisses goodnight.

It’s different now

Yet

Somehow the same.

My mother asked if I’m obsessed.

My father asked if I’m in love.

The answer to both

Is yes.

A man who reads poetry

Is a man worth liking.

A man who writes poetry

Is a man worth loving.

I don’t feel so insecure anymore.

When he is alone

I believe that he is alone.

I spent last night with him

And his daughter.

His hand rested on my leg all night.

Like an animalistic gesture

Of reassurance.

She’s okay. She’s mine.

We all smiled.

We all laughed.

I was so happy.

He holds me now.

He wraps his arms around me

And pulls me close.

I’ve never felt anything like this.

I feel like I’m slipping

Or that I’ll let it slip.

One too many ciders

And the word may fall

From my lips.

I get it now.

What all the songs are about.

I finally get it.

I’m sitting here

Smoking my third cigarette

Trying not to work myself up

To the point where I do something stupid.

But I feel like I’m close.

So close.

I’m sitting here

Smoking and

Getting the urge to call every man I know

Getting the urge to fuck them

Just so that when I find out

He’s fucking someone else

It won’t hurt so bad.

But it will hurt just as bad.

If not worse.

How do I cope

With a nagging sense

Of insecurity?

How do I survive

With a feeling

Of impending devastation?

How do I know?

How do I live without knowing?

I don’t know.

And I won’t.

I wish I could detach myself from him

Like a simple hook and eye closure.

I wish I could just turn it all off.

But I can’t.

I wish I knew how.

Oh how I wish.

Love is an illness.

Of that I am convinced.

It certainly is a weakness

In which all other weaknesses

Seem to thrive.

I had a momentary lapse in judgement.

My brain overtook my heart

And I was afraid.

But I shouldn’t be.

He has a good soul.

I know that.

And knowing that should be enough.

“The sun lets my shadow stay close to me

Keeping the loneliness birds away

Just as you do for more and more each day”

Oh my heart.

It seems as if

Each time I’m here

Things move along.

Each step is microscopic

But at least we’re moving forward.

Last night he told me I looked really good brushing my teeth.

I laughed it off but he insisted.

SCM

Small compliments matter

We spent nearly the entire weekend together.

This is dangerous

Because I forget that the world is turning

When I’m with him.

The hours slip by too quickly.

Each moment in his presence is precious.

He said he cares about me a lot.

I told him I care about him a lot.

He said he knows.

Does he know that I love him?

I really really do.

Not only do I love him

I fucking adore him.

I want to spend every waking and unwaking moment with him.

I’m so in love

That it hurts.

He curled up next to me

In the middle of the night.

His leg and arm draped over me.

He kissed me and said

“Love you babe”

But I was half asleep.

I should’ve said it back.

But I didn’t.

I need to tell him I love him.

I need to open the lock

And let the chains fall.

I need to strip the armor from my heart.

I’m starting to believe I won’t regret it.

That he won’t break it.

DTR.

Mark this day - March 27th.

He said he loved me.

Finally he said it.

And I said I loved him too.

He said he’s been wanting to say it

For awhile.

He also introduced me

As his girlfriend.

IM SO FUCKING HAPPY.

SO.

FUCKING.

UNBELIEVABLY.

INEXPLICABLY.

HAPPY.

I’m in love.

And he’s in love.

We’re in love.

Finally.

I hope I didn’t fuck things up.

I dug through his shit.

Like I always do.

Like I tried really fucking hard not to.

I did so good for so long.

I resisted the urge to hunt for hurt.

But I couldn’t help myself.

Like fucking always.

I had to be the fucking detective.

I had to look through his texts

And messages

And search history.

No one is innocent.

Not even me.

Then why do I get upset?

When I find what I know I will find?

When I get slapped in the face

With proof of basic human action?

I convince myself that the men I love

Are different.

Pure.

But I always am proven wrong.

Because I fucking dig for it.

I hunt like my ancestors.

Proof is my prey.

It’s fucking dumb.

Love is a fucking trash concept.

Emotions get too tangled.

Like a pile of delicate necklaces.

Sometimes my OCD brain cannot connect

The haphazard human dots.

It’s all very real now.

And I’m a very real psychopath.

Maybe my ex was right.

Maybe I can’t handle when things are going well.

Because I never truly believe things are going well.

I can’t trust people.

But why?

Because I know I can’t be trusted?

Is this because of how I’m wired?

How I was raised?

Or did I do this to myself?

Why am I the way that I am?

“You’re beautiful, babe. That’s why I love you. Inside and out.”

He’s being transparent

And I think it is an attempt

To get me to reciprocate.

But I can't do that for him

Or for anyone really.

A woman always has her secrets.

I wish someone would invent a cable

That could connect from the inner-brain

To a computer.

So that memories could be uploaded

Like photos to the cloud.

That every time he called me beautiful

Could be documented on a virtual calendar.

That each loving act

Could be filed away in a massive database.

An infinite collection of compliments and kisses.

This is what I want.

This is how it should be.