Thursday, 22 February 2007

Not a thing

Let's call this silent period of time Dale battles the giant cube parts IV and V. She may have cracked the cube but its not over just yet.

Friday, 9 February 2007

The great cube of sorrow



The great cube of sorrow turns in the sunlight. Shining. Flawless. I must gather the courage to destroy it.

Monday, 5 February 2007

He has gone mad

Now it is all undone. Elliot was right, the centre cannot hold. I have unravelled us from something into only tangles. He has gone mad. He has gone mad and now he won’t come home. I have been struggling for breath. Days and days passed where I sobbed and vomited and tried and tried just to force air through me and live.

Twice since then I have slept in the arms of the other man. The other man that I love and love and love unfathomably.

This morning we lay stoned on his bed dozing and hugging then wanking and he said I don’t have any condoms or I’d fuck you if you wanted. And there was a condom in my backpack. I put it there despite saying I’d stay over but no shagging. Because I knew that it didn’t matter what, I wanted him inside me, I wanted him to fuck me into oblivion. We spent the night together again. Skin on skin curled inside his strength and his weight. I discovered that when I’m on top our bodies just fit together. I discovered that whilst wearing underpants and he was wearing underpants and he was biting my breasts and holding my hips and I could feel his dick pressing and pressing at me. But no fucking. One of these days. One of these days I will gather my courage and say Fuck Me. Fuck Me Now. Fuck Me Hard Fuck Me Furious and turn yourself loose, turn yourself wild, turn yourself savage and fuck me. But today was not that day.

Where do I go from here. Alone. I am alone rattle walking round and round this big house with all of our seven year things in here staring at walls and sitting blankly for hours breathing in and out reams of smoke. I am all cigarettes. I am all cigarettes and empty air. One moment at a time, praying for strength to lift the despair enough to eat or to tidy or to get out the front door and go to work.

The time before last when I slept in his bed he fist fucked me and stuck his fingers up my arse and rubbed my clit all at once and bit tracks across my breasts and ran his hands across my chest and said I’m going to come here and here and here but then he went looking for condoms in Max’s room and ten minutes later I found him sitting in the shower. Puddled. He couldn’t find any condoms and then he felt sick. It is futile.

In the morning he spooned behind me and rubbed his erection in my arsecrack and held me tight and breathed into my neck and we rocked together until he came. Selfish intimacy.

I don’t know where to from here. I am slowly gathering strength and courage. I can face the thought of one day at a time now. This day I have spent in reverie and comfort in Elliot’s bed in his arms in silence and companionship. This day I was safe. This evening I will cook myself something. I must and I will cook myself something. I will have a shower. I will eat vegetables with my dinner.

I walked diferently when I learnt the trumpet

So what’s a revenge narrative anyway? Maybe we’ll find out together. The beginning of this was so long ago that I walked differently. The beginning of this was when I learnt the trumpet so that I could sit next to him. The beginning of this was the end of something else. I need breakfast but I might be on the right track.

Friday, 2 February 2007

Lime Rind

This isn't even the beginning.

So I rolled into him as my heart broke for the second time that night. It wasn't even midnight and I lay in the arms of one man in the bed that I shared with another while my heart broke and broke again until I couldn't breathe. He said Breathe because I love you. He said Don't love me because I'm fucked then something else that I can't remember. He said try not to love me the same way that I am trying not to love you. The fumes coming off him made me gag and I tried to think of how much I would have to drink to raise that kind of a toxic alcoholic stench. Lime rinds. His skin smelt of lime rind and I still can't push my thumb into a mandarin without feeling his arms across my naked back.

It was supposed to be a dark night with the fragments of my heart poking holes in my lungs and the drunk man trying not to love me trying not to drink trying not die and my seven year lover drunk somewhere in the city, crashing on someone's floor, someone he called Clara. But his arms were around me and he said Breathe because I love you. Breathe because I love you and even through the fucking dead set shit soup of my life I drew breath against the warmth and weight of him. I breathed because he loved me.

I'm not sure how much stock to set by the pillow talk of a suicidal alcoholic in the middle of a bust three weeks out of rehab. I'm guessing it shouldn't be a whole lot. But what do you do if your brains just connect? What do you do if you can't sleep for weeks and weeks without the touch of him? What I did was wait. Wait and wait and wait and then he busted and drank so much that he wanted to die and that's when I gathered up his pieces and stacked them naked in my bed, then I lifted the sheets and climbed right on in next to them and pushed myself as close as I could be and they spoke. They said I am trying not love you and I clung to the man I love until the other man that I love phoned and said I'm not coming home. I thought good because there is another man in your bed until I noticed how pissed he was and how he slurred and I know enough to watch through the phone the slant of his shoulder the way his left foot will be slightly forward, his eyes wide and blue and his face making the same face he makes when he fucks me. He said You know Clara don't you? I'm staying at her place, she said I could crash there. And fucking snap. Where my love sat imploded and I blackhole hollowed out until all the unheard screams rushed through me and I lay there in the arms of another man while hyper-speeded sorrow eroded the edges of my blown out chest.

The man I love, the broken drunken one in my bed said, I love the way you hold me. I said I want you to feel safe. He said Is it safe? And I said Yes, here it is safe then he ran his hands across my back and pushed one under my oldest t-shirt and up my back and around the side of my breast. He said It's definitely not safe and he was kissing me with such restraint, so slow, asking so many questions. And instead of ripping off my Disney pyjama pants and my purple supermarket underpants and pushing him down and swinging a leg over and grabbing his cock and shoving it as far in as it would go and fucking him as hard as I god damn could I said Things are already hard, let's not make them harder and I pushed my head into his chest and clung to him wearing my oldest t-shirt and Disney pyjama pants from Big W, ten bucks, while my fucking vagina pulsed and pulsed over the empty where his dick should have been.