there was something about her that just commanded respect
i never respected her but here i am dead for trying to fake it
every time we were together i never dared being myself
so i shaped and molded into an idea, a totem of idleness she had expected me to be
i knew how to read her but i tried my best to never let that show
her bed was comfortable but she always fell asleep first
id stare at the ceiling and enjoy the quiet
she never snored
that was the only time i had being myself when i was around her
with her being asleep and me creating patterns on her ceiling
it was peeling off and full of mold
i didnt like mornings with her
she didn’t like kissing and hugging
she’d get up and go to the kitchen
taking her coffee outside to the patio
leaving me alone in the bed
id wake up and never say anything about it
to express an opinion was to demand respect
was to call her bullshit
was to express individualism
was to suggest I am beyond a vessel for self destruction
it’s a way of saying that i know how and why she is flawed
but i can’t let her know
she needs to be in control
and i need to suffer from the back lash
i tried leaving her a few times
but each time i just ended up coming back
she hated herself and was looking for someone to abuse
i hated myself and believed i deserved it
it was our 2 year anniversary
we had a horrible fight
7 hours and never taking a breath
we watched the beaming sun turn into an iconoclast of hopeless romanticism
i chased her to the kitchen
she’s pretending to fry some chicken while wearing a borrowed grimace of nonchalance
i smell her face as she passes through me like i was never there to pick out the silverware, and it reeks of someone else’s mess
she throws her plate across the table
the thud sound shattered the suspense like a bunch of cheap porcelain plates
she sits across our modular table which we found on the street
it’s an odd table which we also use for ironing clothes
i sit across from her
never daring to fully interrupt her while gorging on her overcooked chicken
every other minute exhaling an heavy memorandum to get her attention
she never looks up to meet my eyes
after that, locking herself in the bathroom taking her 3rd shower of the day
i sit outside and rest my back on the door while sitting down on the cold crooked floor
there’s this dent in one of the tiles
something I’ve noticed when we first moved in
never seemed to gather the courage to face our land lord about it
i dig deeper into the dent
until I sense the scent of her shampoo
pink foggy grapefruity clouds
asymmetrically cut snippets of involuntary erotica
rushing underneath the door
she turns off the water
i hear her feet making contact with the floor
we could never afford a bathroom mat
i hear her nearing to the sink
already anticipating the sound of bursting water
nothing at all.


I just realized I had an incredible Age of Enlightenment this past year, a true artistic awakening. In a way, in a very sick way that is, it would be beneficial for you to keep rejecting me, for me to keep wanting you regardless of your rejecting, and then for me to keep channeling all this hurt into the keyboard and sketchpad. So please, be my guest, keep pooping inside my chest cavity. I’ll be the last one to laugh when I become a famous artist and buy 6 panthers that I will keep in a cage embellished with the 200,000 Swarovski crystals off Rihanna’s CFDA awards dress which I received for free because I’m sucha big deal and a salt water pool and a matte finish Porsche and an 80 bedroom mansion in south of France and a walk-in shower where you can practically play tennis in and a house for my dogs like Paris Hilton has and a whole room dedicated to sex toys and a little boy toy called Michael Fassbender that I will store inside the accessories department in my monster size closet room right next to where I keep all my Margiela couture pieces…

Or you could want me back and be with me. 

so yeah the reason i haven’t been posting much lately is cuz i feel better, and i have new conclusions regarding this whole story with this guy, new angles on my love for him, what we had and what he wanted from me. i guess i let myself touch the truth, ive been building the courage to confront it, for a really long time and now as much as it hurts i have more emotional resources to let it all in, marinade in the fucking bowl of tears sweat blood and pain, and just deal. deal with the fact, that as much i wanted to believe he had feelings for me, i guess beyond the sexual attraction which in itself was reeking of duality and mixed feelings, i really hoped he loved me too, or had some feelings for me. in our monumental bare-all convo a few months back, there wasn’t anything too juicy. just some jibber jabber about how he had a fantasy or two, or a semi-confession about non-explored untapped realm of feelings for me, that even if they do exist it is not something he’d care to unleash and have his relationship with his gf ruined, basically sayin to me: yeah, but nah. right now, there’s something very chill about this marinade of shit and something very disturbing..not drawing much. not writing much. no inspiration. i mean, it all hurts but i feel like the worst is behind me, and now there’s just nothing too powerful going on. i dont feel inspired, but somehow i feel very much alive. there’s something about a round sense of truth that is very artistically disabling i guess. the inspiration comes and goes, every artist has his on and off periods when it comes to creating. i guess im on my off period now, but im really on my on period when it comes to self exploration and introspection. im creating a lot of connections in my head, confronting myself with some very hard questions and im always fact-checking everything i assume, every little hypothesis with reality as i go, this takes a lot of energy. im also still in therapy, but i feel like nothing much is going on there either. everything about this situation with this guy (we gotta give him a name already darn it) is already well talked over and well understood in therapy, by me and my therapist. i guess im just processing. every time i am on my off period, per say, it always translates into me spending less time on tumblr and interacting with tumblr ppl, means more time on facebook tho (weird ?) it means i am busier, factually so. not a lotta time on the comp cuz im always on the go and when i am i’m into other stuff. it’s sad, but for me my on periods as an artist are when i am in real deep shit..things are so annoyingly mellow right now, i ought to fucking get into trouble already.