mrandmrswilliams

[mrandmrswilliams]

“Jesus took the wheel, and gave it to you.”

2 Corinthians 5:16-18

[mrandmrswilliams]

Tears are such a betrayal and a rebirth.

I  have survived homicidal thoughts, suicidal thoughts and everything in between. I have accepted you for the narcissist that you are and finally had the breakthrough needed to push my own self past the infamous borderline.

I feel solid enough. But solid enough to cry? The problem now is not society conditioning boys and men and every masculine creature on this earth not to cry. No, we have flowers and feminism and photo shoots that show the softer side and an entire generation of people saying, it’s okay to show emotion.

The dark side is that the women who are hurt by said men are conditioned to be strong and bold and beautiful and remember your worth and f*ck that n*gga because he didn’t deserve you anyway. Crying is still a form of weakness. It is admitting that you loved someone and you lost them all while trying to warn them not to lose you and it hurts. It hurts being the good girl all the time, the empath, the patient one, the positive one, the ball of sunshine who can survive everything and anyone and every devil and Satanic attack and weapon formed against her. I get it. I’m strong. I’m every woman. It’s all in me.

Right now, I want to cry but the tears won’t come out. They refuse.  They are peering through the windows of my soul like that meme and rolling their eyes like “really? a dis waste man you want fi bawl out fa? a no sah. a man eediat dat? a nuh my style dat.” and they are absolutely right. You don’t deserve my tears anymore than you deserve my love and maybe that is the hardest pill to swallow, and it’s not exactly an aspirin or a cetamol or even ecstasy.

Not all surrender leads to that. Ecstasy that is. Pain relief. Freedom. I wanted the type of surrender that ended with passionate love making and submission to a man who will always protect you and freedom from doubts and insecurity and trying to control everything.

What do you do when you discover that the driver of the car is intentionally trying to crash? To hear the opinions of the people inside? Is that so? Can you hear them once they are dead, and you are dead too? Is this a triple double? And what would they matter anyway after you have wasted so much of people’s time and money and done damage that now needs to be repaired.

You drive that little red car with the white patch on front which is funny because even if I want to think it’s not your car, that white patch always gives it away. So symbolic. The day you crashed and seemed almost proud to have a real tragedy, an actual reason and a valid excuse to not be there for me for the simplest things yet again. “Go look” you said. I didn’t want to, but I did.

We faked so much. i knew from the day I caught you flaking once again, faking sick and forcing yourself to show up anyway to save face. We made eye contact and the vibe was so forced, so fake, so false that I just knew that whatever was there was gone or at least struggling to prove itself as anything other than two people wanting to see how much of their blanks can be filled or voids patched with whatever it was we were searching for in the first place.

I still long to expose you. It’s like I haven’t stripped you naked enough. It’s like you really thought you could hide all that shit from me, all the emotion and darkness and manipulation and character flaws - and most importantly, the truth. I may not be openly or even privately bisexual anymore but I have danced between honesty and fuckery way more than I dipped between genders.

I know one when I see one. Whether you, too, were sexually ambiguous and hiding it, that’s another story. But morally ambiguous? Not even closet-like. You were out in the open with your hypocrisy and contradictions all while trying to poke holes in my theory not realising your own balloon was deflating.

Mine was made of a thicker plastic, not so easily punctured as much as made to hold too much hot air and expected to rescue both myself and our dreams from Oz. You were no wizard. I’m not sure what power you felt you held over me besides love and my own disobedience to God which is overridden by the former every time. I cannot be separated from God’s love, not even by you. Not even by pain. Not even by narcissistic abuse. Not even my tumblr posts.

I could cry  now. It would feel like as much of a relief as masturbation or marijuana, both of which I have used compulsively and abused. Neither of which I need. At least know when I touch myself I heal myself by calling out my own name instead of yours. Fantasising about myself and even getting off by my own voice. I worked hard to replace all of you with all of me, and it was God alone who pulled that off. Yet and still, you are not naked enough. You’re still hiding behind silence and discards and new supply and your growing collection of masks. You accused me of running while on your own marathon. It’s just my road map has more foot prints in more countries and states and cities, while you choose to run back to home base every time, but in the opposite direction. Not making the full round to score the point, and using your bat for everything but hitting the ball. I wanted out of this park, you wanted in. You dropped the bat without realising the pitcher is dedicated to his job even when you aren’t, and that same ball will hit you in the head if you aren’t careful.

Be  careful with me. Always a warning and never a threat and as I untwist this fuckery I realise that honesty is what saved me in the end. Or was it the beginning? The end of you and the beginning of me.

To set a prisoner free and realise that prisoner is you. And yes, it was me, and yes, I forgive you, and yes I mean it and yes, it hurt and yes I went crazy for half a second until I realised it would not only cost me my sanity but my dreams.

You were never worth it, even though you did an outstanding and often times pathetic job of letting me know you weren’t.

I promise you the next time a guy calls himself a wasteman I’ll believe it Especially when he says it twice, lies more than once and shows it.

I don’t wanna cry so more as much as scream. Into the ear of the next man who loves me, as I come to my sense and my climax. Not bitter revenge, just sweet revelation. A different Mr. & Mrs Smith. More holy. More genuine. More loving. True. Black. Bold. Brilliant. Facts. Not fiction. By the way, this is my last post.

To hell with you. Heaven knows. God bless. Oh, and I still love you.

[mrandmrswilliams]

[shoots through a wall at John] You still alive, baby?

[mrandmrswilliams]

I envy writers. 

Artists. Musicians. Poets. Et cetera,

people who can take their pain and make it sound or look meaningful. i oppose capitalisation and grammar rules and anything that may make me appear as if i am more professional than i truly am. the truth is - i have started to avoid writing because i feel polluted. filled with so much of whatever and overwordy and long winded and all of the things which make up the things no one wants to read.

have you ever just felt like spiritual spam?

this is the problem lately. writing is supposed to be empowering and words are spells and watch what you say and what you think because it becomes what you are! and i am suddenly suffocating all of my raw senses as i shove them in stardust and sprinkle them with glitter the minute they are formed. 

have you ever given birth to something that just stayed in the placenta?

i wonder how many of us would still be in the womb if we had options. talk about a comfort zone. forget all this talk of learning and eating and cooking and fending for yourself. forget about diplomacy and laws of power and seduction and war and knowing how to text in a way so people respond. forget ghosting and bae and TWITTER DO YOU KNOW THIS FUCKING SONG and anxiety and wanting to hold hands and see you everyday but not wanting to be clingy.

have you ever caught a glimpse of your peace where you’d least expect it?

like how i was in the taxi coming from the grocery store or is it super market or whatever one calls things when you’ve committed to a new life in a new country. anyway, i was riding home and as we drove past the jamaica fire brigade (or is it firetruck? it said brigade, so...) i instinctively and obediently craned my neck to soak in as much detail as possible. no, it is none of my business but if it is potential drama i should at least be well informed. nothing to see, fortunately, just water running through the streets which is just as delightful to follow with the eyes. but it was just beyond this chaos that i saw calm.

two red lights flooding a veranda with soft color. i saw it and for a second, i recognised that mood. perhaps from an airbnb where you get to experience an entirely new way of living for however many days. that includes finding new and interesting places to read or just chill and thank god for spontaneous luxury and freedom that comes from enjoying other people’s shit without having to care for it. but it’s deeper than that. it was how colors set moods and how verandas and balconies and porches always feel so safe yet so secluded. safe. protected. it was about red being soft and not an emergency. nothing urgent, in fact, asking for nothing and offering everything in return. it’s unfair to project my fantasy’s onto a coloured light bulb on a stranger’s porch but wouldn’t it be nice to still believe in something other than just God and myself all the time?

have you ever been exhausted from both your own lack of perfection and the search for the absolute truth which exempts you from perfection altogether?

there is something to be said about my need to be the best and have everything i want and my habit of breaking the rules and overriding the requirements. there is something about earth and society and peopling in general that makes me feel exempt. it jumps out when i have to wait in line at the bank or when someone tells me no. i am perplexed, baffled, offended even that i, someone so obviously not normal, should have to do normal people things for normal results. it’s not fair for me to fail at being normal repeatedly and still be expected to demonstrate my ability to be so. the nerve. the audacity.

whew chile, the ghetto.

and this is my attempt at writing about something other than love and how it is once again wrapping itself around my throat and something about wanting to breathe but not quite remembering how air works or who’s entitled to it.

there is a deeper meaning in here, somewhere, which i will find one day. in the meantime, i’m glad i finally got the phrase “i envy writers” out of my head for the first time in the past hour and that i have actively done something other than get high and think about you. you know what that is? growth.

bless.

[mrandmrswilliams]