The rage is back and I can't seem to control it.
The rage I spent my whole life trying to let go.
I find it creeping back up on me, lashing out.

I can only apologize. And shrug in an insane and existentialist Gallic fashion.
But in a sense, it's that rage that gives me strength. And teeth for biting.

Curious that a man of any size, of any age, of any social stature, only acts a man when he is:

a) with other men
b) in a fight
c) doing something sports related
d) fucking

Otherwise, with a woman, ultimately I find that a grown man wants to curl up like a huge baby in my arms. With his face to my breasts, to suck on my tits until he falls asleep.

Great. Another bitter early night with Hugo.
He came over after work and I asked if he wanted to take a shower with me. Without looking up from the telly he says:

- Do you want me to?

Fuck it, I thought.

- It's alright, I said, I don't want you to do anything you don't want to do.

He doesn't answer, captivated by the television.

My God, I think. He doesn't want me, not even soapy and naked in the shower.

In the shower I exfoliate and oil myself. I shave to keep the kitty bald. I walk out steaming, smooth and tender.

Will he want me now?

I walk to my room, he looks up and says -- hey little one, are you clean?

- yes I'm nice and clean.

- Good, he says.

I look at him, thinking he might follow me into my room, hoping.

I hear him change the channel. Fuck me.

Is this what marriage is like?

In a sense I am thankful he doesn't hardly touch me anymore. In a sense I don't care. I would be more angry and bitter about this but fuck it.

I'm not a wife, and I'm not a nun and the dopamine junkie has been keeping delicious company and the kitty has been feeding.

No one out there is the arbiter of karmic justice.
Consequence - just another bend in the road.
I know I am an intentional agent.
I know the ripples I make in the universe will touch each other sometime.

I feel as if I'm walking on another plane, a cord loosely connecting me to earth, the smile of my beloved nailing me to the ground, bringing me back to a stable center. And above it all, I am travelling, searching the grid. I can't help it. His love makes me solid when I am plasmic.

And each time I feel his rejection, something inside me gets a little more sorrowful, a little less guilty, and the split widens.

Shhh....please hush and be quiet. I don't like to be disturbed while I'm dissociating.
Ahh. Sweet dissociation. Wonderful Multiplicity.

Last night I slept naked. He slept in sweats and a t-shirt.

This morning he awoke early to get ready for work, I awake too.
I am in a foul tempered "didn't get my cum" mood.

- What's wrong with you? he says, pulling on his shoes, fastening his watch.

- Nothing, I say, just tired.

He gives me a long curious look. We've had many morning like this. And he doesn't like to "deal with me."

- I gotta go. I'm running late. Do you still want me to come back tonight?

I don't answer, my eyes closed, feigning sleep.

It's the cycle of being hurt. For all the times I've been hurt, for all the times he's hurt me -- I reclaim "something of my own anyhow". I have a right to reset the equilibrium, no matter how fucked up and chickenshit my methods are.

The ballad of the abused has come back to haunt me.
But I clap my hands over my ears, I don't want to hear it. I feign sleep, I don't want to see it.

I run. I hide. I love myself, I loathe myself. I want to be free, but I have comfort and hope in lockdown.

Oh the contradiction. I hate him for not being able to see inside me. But I am grateful too.

Duplicity and denial, tools for suspension.

I once wished to eschew any secret life for this man.
Because I wanted him to breathe me in.
It makes me sad, and cold inside.
Once upon a time, he knew me on the inside, fell in love with me,
loved all these dazzling shiny things whirling around in my brain.

It's all become stale, dull, fuzzy, and outgrown. Like a childhood memory I can't bear to let go.