Time to go. Time to shake off the wretched dust of this plane. Time to find a place in this world where people mind their fucking business. Walking down 17th St., a cigarette dangled from my gin-stained lips…where did my love go…where did my love for her go? It was gone. Irretrievably lost in the quagmire of bitter intent and an analysis of betrayal. I couldn’t even remember what it felt like to touch her serene neck and not feel disgust. It was a curse that she and I crossed timelines once again. Her pristine image in my universe was forever tainted by the repugnant filth that climbed on and around me as I touched her. A penetrating intrusion of fear. More perfect than torture was her caress, more damaging than the fatality of optimism. She was my link. The one who was supposed to save me from the fantasy, the solid perpetual movement—the wandering lust for change. She was supposed to be the rock, show me that being and remaining were not the precepts of agony, but the ecstasy of devotion. Instead she was every bit as dishonest as the rest, as dishonest as I am with myself. I can’t do this right now…it’s not working…I’m not immersed…back away or be destroyed…arms flailing, slaying the possession, the pain seeps through my pores and is regurgitated in blood…the crimson flood of purification…anguish.
Unlovable.
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