Romance Is For the Damned

Vomit and bright lights. Cigarette butts and adventures. Half dead prostitutes, dope fiends, and old lonely men. It's insane, yes, but at least it has a source. A source that can be traced, studied, stopped, or simply ignored. But at least it has a source. I have no holes in veins, no magic toxin in my blood, I haven't lived through an horrific war, I haven't seen my loved ones sodomized by the machine. But still, I feel so useless, so chaotic, so full of passion. I am pathetic, full of reason and inquiry. Yet still I've managed to romanticize an illogical lifestyle, a self destructive one, an unearthly, an ungodly and unsustainable lifestyle. I long to be able to point to a source of my madness, some external woe. But all I can do is cut open my own chest and point fingers in the mirror. Giggle, giggle. My face in my hands, I can't even force out any tears, just air, empty, rank air.

Brave men do not cry, so say the whores as they bite down hard on the one thing I value in this life. Be brave for me, so says the queen as she slowly carves out my eyes because she didn't like what she sees in them. But brave men aren't psychotic fucks that bow to the whim of a half naked whore on a throne. Much the opposite, brave tell the sun when to rise, and the moon to shine full. Brave men stand above their own madness, they seek it out and cut it off at the source. I am incapable of being brave, I can't find the source of madness, and this madness is slowly rotting my soul away. Giggle, giggle. I am wallowing in a brilliant nothingness, a vivid experience of the greatest dullness the human imagination could hope to bring forth, a melancholy self-obsessed romanticized tragedy.

Heroes come and go, but villains remain. So here I am, fingering the edge of this knife against my wrist, playing with the trigger of a loaded gun. Don't try and stop me, Eden rejected me, maybe I'll find love in Sodom, or friends in Gomorrah. Turn back, and don't look back. I stand on a precipice, refusing to jump. A man with a rope around his neck afraid to die, yet unwilling to live. Stagnated filth congealing on the breast of a beautiful woman. No one loves a lecher, and no one wants to see a freak in tears.

Nirvana is a wet-dream. A ghastly fantasy for those who accept the solidarity of this world, and a wonderful end for those who reject their truest selves. I feel the need to reiterate old fears, giggle, giggle. Maybe the universe only seems so grim because I am only focused on a dying star. Maybe I should pull my head out of the sand and take a deep breath. Maybe I should pick wildflowers and skip while whistling a happy tune. Maybe I should blow my brains out and be done with it, so says the one eyed man who never knew love.

I Slept With Tyler Durden

Nineteen of us are dead and gone, we're not coming back. Fifteen of them are still alive and well, they're not going away. Thirteen of them say I shouldn't be afraid, and I try not to laugh. They say that it's no great thing the Void, the Hole. A drop in a bucket, they say, one grain of sand in a desert. I saw Mt. Olympus on cloudless day, and it was dwarfed by her shadow.

Ever wondered what human skin feels like? Me too. Ever wonder what human hair smells like? Me too. Ever wonder what it's like to have someone smile just for you? It'll make you sick, trust me. Ten times we begged the gods to show us the way, and each time we laughed ourselves to tears. But now the corpse of the One-Was rises slowly out of the muck and mire of my own wet dreams. I think I saw her soul, or was that just her breast? I got lost in her eyes, or was that just my own fantasy? Lying in the dark, I did what I could to forget her name, but I'm still screaming it as loud as I can. She won't let me sleep, but I've got no time for such things anymore. I keep burning my throat on her smiles. And she keeps running her hands over my words, her skin reminds me of summer. Her voice is home, and her eyes are safety, but that's a one-way road. She refuses to crawl back into her grave and let me sleep.

I slept with Tyler Durden, and I've made love to my own Ego. I am not a beast, and I am not a god. I refuse to let her pull me down again, but this new one, she dances like a wild animal. Keeping me caged in my own mind, never letting me forget what I am, meat and bone, sin and suffering. She leaned close once and whispered in my ear, but I can't forget the way her eyes looked when she said goodbye, such triumph, such victory, the fury danced in them. But not like this new one, oh no, she's smooth, and lithe, and so very damn coy. I don't think I can ever understand the sorts of things that prick my heart in the dead of the night. If she could, or if they could, or God forbid that I began to understand my own mind, I wouldn't love her anymore. It's not like I am alive anyway. My skin rots and my bones fester. I am not going anywhere, and she's coming with me.

I've lost count of how many times I've caught myself staring in the mirror, wishing there was another way. Perhaps I'll find a bullet with my name on it after all, and she'll be at peace for once. I can't bring myself to dance with her, I just sit and hold my head in my hands and let my sorrow bleed away in the wisps of smoke that I choke on. I can never decide which I hate more; myself or the idea of her.

I slept with Frankenstein's monster, and he never called me back. I am picking a bouquet of dead flowers to show her the depth of my apathy. If I can't hold her, she might as well hate me. If can't read her emotions, she might as well see my tears. Always, always I can hear her name in my head. Always, always I can hear the black dog snarling his forgotten song. How many times will I fall into this abyss? How many times will I be trapped by those goddamn blue eyes? How many times will I distracted from my mission? How many 'hers' will I be forced to endure? How many times can a man crucify himself?

I hate to imagine how good she'll look in the summer light. I don't think my heart could take the sight of her brought down to that level. Then again, haven't I toyed with her enough? I held her tight, when I dreamed fever dreams, and she never said she wanted to leave. Is that a good sign? I heard a knock on the door, and I didn't answer. So she climbed through my window, now she won't leave me alone, isn't this what I wanted?

I've got a golden collar on my neck, a slave, but a slave with benefits. I crawl about on my hands and knees, hoping someone will throw me a crust of bread, and for what? So I can go on slitting my wrists and whispering her name? This is not what I was meant to be.