DEAR YOU,

I NEED YOU TO BURY ME

i listen to jawbreaker like it’s a joke but it’s so far from a joke: i need men to be this bald with their melodramatic inner lives sometimes so that i can make fun of them: i need them to publicly perform their awful vulnerability, their stupid, inflated senses of themselves so i can overidentify with them: i need to listen to blake schwarzenbach moan on the C train while i’m finishing I Love Dick for obvious reasons:

WHAT’S THE CLOSEST YOU CAN COME TO AN ALMOST TOTAL WRECK?

of course: we have all these complex narratives about our manias, which i for one will admit to no one. i like being a consumptive circuit: from dead skin i came, and to dead skin i will return. it’s no secret that i just want to see inside myself, literally, destructively—everything’s a metaphor, vesalius taped to my bedroom wall—it’s no secret that i will allow myself cruelty in the name of experimentation—but mostly: how much of myself can i pick off before my nails break? i lost the tweezers that came with my swiss army knife and i could have looked for them but i didn’t, because of the time when—sometimes there are things i still can’t say—because the circuit needs to be closed. the body against the body, wrecking itself, watching itself.

KISS ME ON THE TEETH

feeling thrills: testing the extent to which i can get other people to engage me to dubious ends. pretending i’m doing something wrong—the ethical acrobatics—the uncertainty. failing. marc said: he’s your drug. what if your drug won’t even text you back? and kara: but you like him. and myself: the truth is this destabilizing, totalizing want/hate—it creates quotidian meaning in a terrible way. i don’t believe in abstaining from anything for its own sake: i don’t believe i can be good that way. the pain/pleasure valence is obviously already banal, but power never stops being interesting. i am told i am seduction. i am told that power seduces. i am told no.

the point was that my hair was pulled and i wouldn’t stop asking. each question contains its own truth, something like that—

I AM PEELED AND CORED (OPEN UP SOME CORPSES)

i’m a nihilist, which means i litter. (all of that time in hell to spend for kissing the married man.) i’m a nihilist, which means i would like to take you down with me. i’m a nihilist, so you don’t have a girlfriend. (never would have had a good time again if it wasn’t for the married man.) i’m a nihilist, which means it doesn’t matter that i hate you. i’m a nihilist, and i want to see inside you. open up your mouth. let me climb in.

IF THERE’S A MORAL TO THIS STORY THEN I WISH YOU’D SHOW ME

if we’re doomed to desire: to desiring and being desired: can we prefigure the mutilation inherent in consuming each other: can you see inside me yet? i’ve opened up these wounds: i want my bruises read like tea leaves: the narratives around our manias: can you see the dried blood on my face—or here—or here—or—

AS A FAVOR TO ME

“It was the most subtle, psycho-scientific kind of blowjob.” (Chris Kraus)

(and what i liked best about it was when he said, “now this i’ve thought about,” as though there was any doubt)

“You heard I was good, you wanna see if it’s true.” (Cassie)

i don’t mind being alone. i have a counsel of bruises. i fail early; i fail often. cruelty turns back in on itself; shame flees. i’d give all of myself away if i could. bearing brunts, though, i share them, if too easily: i’d give you the skin off my back: but since you won’t take it: what else can i give you

the German word for poison is Gift and it’s not a mistake—


  04/20/12 at 03:52pm
  1. witchybullshit reblogged this from pussy-strut
  2. pussy-strut posted this