mattywrites

[mattywrites]

If your first message to me is pure filth, I’m not going to reply. It’s not appealing or attractive to me to have a personality that almost entirely revolves around sex. What ever happened to just saying hello and being a normal fucking person? Fuck.

[mattywrites]

I was meant for a lonely life on the deck of some ship. The sound of gulls, the taste of salt air, and the gentle rocking of the vessel, a comfort to me. Soft Country and Folk at night, a small kitchen, and some old friends to confide in. A simple, free of desire, of expectations, and of being desired. No more anger, fury, or rage. No more fighting, no more busted knuckles and inflamed joints. Naught but the peace of the water and Mother Nature guiding me. No ownership, no possessions, and no borders. A big beard. A stack of yellowing and dog-eared books. Endless days and nights to read them. I think about that a lot.

[mattywrites]

Unfortunately some situations require you to be the antagonist in someone else's story. It's always better to be the villain than the victim.

[mattywrites]

If your hands aren't on me, how do I know you're real? If you can't trace mazes across my tough tanned skin, how do I know you're real? My hair was made for delicate fingers to run through, despite my reluctance to hold you close. If you're close, I can be hurt, your hands may not be weapons like mine are, you lack the callouses and the lethality, but your words, and the interior of your heart may hold something far more dangerous, at least to me. No matter who you hold close, you expose the soft meat of your belly. But intimacy, and connection, always puts you at risk. We weaponise our emotions without ever realising it, and thus some men harden their hearts until it's completely calcified, you will never be hurt again, but everything you feel will be blunted, as though you're an anaesthetised gum being prodded and probed by gentle fingers. You feel the sensation that something's touching you, perhaps via the surrounding nerves and tissue, but none of the finer details or imprinting that leaves a lasting emotional impression.

[mattywrites]

Did you forget what it feels like to connect? Silly, boy. You didn't forget. It's latent, integral to the experience. But it's easy to see how it wavers and becomes miragelike in your mind. You exist as this raw, thrumming muscle. A figure of strength. The quiet and solitary existence when you're no longer chasing, and just living for the air in your lungs. It's so easy to forget what it's like to just...exist in that same space as another, and how wrong it feels to have ever lived another way. For all the solitude, for all those deep moments of introspection, the second you converse with meaning it all rushes back to you, like the Great Flood drowning the world and everything on it save for the Ark. Everything comes back in the end. The cyclical nature of human experience isn't lost on me. We exist on this flat circle of spacetime. Everything comes back eventually, everything.

[mattywrites]

i could have you here holding onto you like a dying man grasps at the only life raft within his reach and in that moment think I'm God on high but even to a dying man the whisper of a touch feels divine and divinity is not so easily reached by hands that've hurt others fists bunched in battering rages fingers that've grasped at rusted wrought steel iron cages

'man is god' poetry by matthew marcel

[mattywrites]

Obscenely ravenous today.

[mattywrites]

Obscenely ravenous today.

[mattywrites]

I can’t save you, let alone save myself, but perhaps the mistake we make is in thinking we ever needed saving in the first place? You as you are, bunched fists, a snarl on your face, hate in your eyes, why can’t that be it? Do we need to evolve beyond that? This idea of constant self-evolution in order to become “better”, isn’t that more damaging—for everyone—than simply being yourself? I would rather look at someone and know that they hold hatred in their eyes and heart, than constantly second guess myself as to their intentions and motivations? Hated is so clear and transparent. It’s everything else that’s opaque, and beyond our comprehension. There is an honesty to hated, and negativity, that isn’t present in anything else. There’s no presumption there. It’s all clear and illuminated under the harsh fluorescent lighting that robs us of our dignity, it highlights every flaw and pore present in our form. Having that clarity is greater than you realise.

[mattywrites]

Why aren't you here? Why aren't you on me? Why aren't we... together? It doesn't have to be some convoluted situation, where feelings are a superfluous distraction from the totality of the experience. But why aren't you here? Our flesh was meant to merge in a disgusting, sticky convergence. We were meant to achieve the sublime, dance around ecstasy and the fragile façade that is our shared humanity. Why are we not in some sort of warfare with one another? Don't you want to love me? Don't you want to grow to despise everything I am? Don't you just want to... twist the knife a little deeper as I spew up bloody froth and grin at you? The life draining from me. Isn't our destiny this exhausting pull between love and hate? Our fucking fate. God, not even He could save us from ourselves, what makes you think we could ever save one another? But we'll try. Like fucking hell, we'll try. So, baby, don't you want to hate me? Don't you want to claw at my tan skin and love me?

[mattywrites]

You underestimate the intensity of these feelings. It's like having the barrel of a gun shoved between your teeth, the sudden flood of neurochemicals, the heightening of senses, pupils becoming pinpricks in otherwise bright, stark eyes. There's so fucking little I care about, but in my own way, I care about this. I care about the union of our flesh and the oppressive friction between growls, grunts, and sighs. It's animalistic. It's two starving wolves fighting over the last scrap of bloody meat. We are both the animals and the meat. It is an indecipherable agony, so disgustingly human, but that's us. There's no changing it. There's no escaping it. There is only the bitterest acceptance of the whole fucking thing.

[mattywrites]

and if i sat in my bedroom cold and alone waiting for the vibration on that cunty little phone i don't think it'd ever cross the chasm of your mind like pinpricks in an otherwise empty sky our eyes are acutely trained and seeking to find just the tiniest glimmer out there in an infinite beyond but even an average suburban room with four walls, a window, a door, and a bed can seem like something vast and unfathomable when you're pining wishing hoping for the fucking vibration on that cunty little phone

'four walls' poetry by matthew marcel

[mattywrites]

Just finished up at the gym. Feeling utterly ravenous, voracious. Wanting... needed to tear someone apart.

[mattywrites]

If we're not obsessed with one another, what's the point?

[mattywrites]

oderint dum metuant

[mattywrites]

Come watch true crime and scary videos with us.

[mattywrites]

oderint dum metuant