#the pain I inflict onto myself just by wanting to make things prettier

[skeleticals]

literally can't look at the minecraft font anymore cuz of me getting a headache just from making pixels 4 something

[theoriginalnikegirl]

In light of a recent conversation and the fact im rewatching once upon a time, im revisiting my opinion re: hating Elfangor thinking especially of the last two interactions Tobias has interacting with the idea of Elfangor in the series.

To lay it out, Tobias has a total of three interactions with Elfangor in the series: meeting him in book 1, having his will read in 23, and a hallucination in 43. I've tended to take to the hallucination as real-ish, real-like, since Tobias has so few interactions with his father and I've long hated the implications of that interaction. Duringst the recent conversation however, I argued myself into thinking it was wholly Tobias' subconscious. Basically what happens in that interaction (why I hate it) is it boils down to a hallucination of Elfangor telling Tobias to suck it up. Tobias has just been tortured for a hundred pages, and here is an image of his absent father saying: "yeah too bad, now suck it up. Get over it. You shouldn't feel as hurt as you do and you shouldn't go and make it anyone else's problem". It's dressed up in prettier language but that's the sentiment. Now I, as the reader, don't really know Elfangor that well. I don't know if he would say that to Tobias. I do know Tobias though and I know that Tobias would absolutely say that to himself

I'm also revisiting the reading of the will in 23 which I have always appreciated. I appreciated that in that will Elfangor said: I wanted to love you. Not that he did, but that he wanted to. I have long had a bit of stick up my ass thinking it's too little to say he wished he hadn't abandoned Tobias' because the fact of the matter is Tobias was abandoned whether Elfangor wanted to or not, but I am also rewatching once upon a time.

For those not in the know, once upon a time is a tv show about fairy tale characters processing generational trauma, and how that trauma follows the generations even as each new generation tries so hard to avoid the mistakes of their parents, to the point where several generations literally abandon their children hoping that will break the cycle of generational trauma (it works exactly once) Anyway long story short Neal, a character who at this point has pretty much processed the trauma his father had inflicted on him (good job btw) just died while his own son (Henry) had completely forgotten him due to a magic thing and thought he'd merely abandoned him and his mother in jail. In his dying breath, Neal told Emma (Henry's mom) that she didn't need to restore Henry's memory if he was happy without it, if it would cause him more pain to remember his father only knowing he'd died. But he asked her to tell Henry that he'd wanted to be a good father and dammit if that didn't mean something!

The crucial difference here between Elfangor and Neal is that Neal explicitly doesn't put responsibility onto Henry in exchange for his wanting to be a good father (if it would hurt him more to remember, he shouldn't) while Elfangor does saddle Tobias with a) fighting the war that he couldn't anymore and b) there's the fact that Elfangor's will was only read to Tobias to motivate him to continue to fight that war. Which is on the Ellimist but what else did Elfangor think it was gonna do when he wrote it??

Point is I am on better terms with Elfangor now but out of the two of them Neal is the better dad.

[cuckquean-slave]

A Different Kind of Threesome

Master and I had driven to the airport to pick up his other submissive, she was a 33 year old woman with a coltish frame, long legs and round full breasts who exuded an innocence that belied her age; she was beautiful.

As soon as she walked through the arrivals gate, grinning and brushing her new conker brown bob from her eyes, things changed. It was as if I was invisible,Master greeted her warmly kissing her on both cheeks and whisking her away towards his car. I was left trailing behind them unsure as to what was happening.

Once at his car he opened the door for her, always one to be chivalrous and with hardly a backward glance threw me the keys and said, “ You're driving”.

Whilst at any other moment the idea of driving Masters car, a sleek black Mercedes would have been a reward, in this second it felt like a punishment.

I got in, adjusted the seat and mirrors breathing in the scent of expensive car, studiously ignoring the whispering and giggling coming from the back seat ; a new role for the slave I thought to myself, chauffeur.

I kept my eyes on the road, the giggling had subsided and instead l heard the sound of fingers entering flesh and the smell of sex filled the car, yet still in the interests of sanity I would not look in the rear view mirror; Lot’s wife had it easy being turned into a pillar of salt when she looked back at Sodom.She couldn't feel anything.

W

My fingers clutched at the steering wheel as sub gave another groan and I couldn't resist the urge to look any longer, my eyes strayed to the mirror,

My pussy gushed as I took in the view, followed by a tsunami of different emotions,swirling together,jealousy,pain,rage,longing ; an exquisite torture mixed with breathtaking arousal.

Sub was leaning back against Master’s chest,her long legs spread wide, her pert milky breasts exposed,Masters fingers grabbing one of them digging his fingers into her flesh. His other hand between her legs . Her eyes were closed in a mixture of ecstasy and pain.

Master saw me looking at them, gave me an appraising look and then winked at me before he returned to kissing and biting subs neck and whispering goodness knows what to her as he did so.

I tore my eyes away , water pooling at the corner of my eyes. “ Just get home” I told myself.

I got home somehow my ears assaulted the whole way with subs groans and the squelch of fingers inside pussy, my nose taking in the familiar scent of my Master,my desperate empty pussy pulsating;to my shame leaking juices all over the drivers seat.

Once home I was told to kneel on the floor; the place for Master’s slave. Sub was to remain standing. He walked around her admiring her before saying,

“ Mmmmm you look absolutely ravishing “

He didn't even acknowledge my presence, another stab to my slave’s heart and this was only the start.

He graciously proffered his hand to sub, helping her to her feet and then covering her eyes with an eye mask; she was now effectively blind but her remaining senses heightened.

“ You look so beautiful my sub, Masters voice caressed her , smoothly seductive.

In contrast his first words to me “Undress us, slave”,were cold with a tone that broached no argument, not that I would ever refuse him.

I replied the only way I could ever do, “ Yes Master”.

My stomach dropped to my feet, the rollercoaster of emotions had started. The humiliation of being made to undress sub.

I lifted subs arms and pulled her top over her head, kneeling to remove her shoes and socks,as I was undoing her jeans,Master had freed her young, pert but heavy breasts and was stroking them; my pussy gushed and threatened to overflow as I saw what he was doing, the yearning for him to touch me was almost overwhelming, I was so jealous of sub I wanted to scream, how was I going to get through this?

A baptism by fire ,lust and humiliation.

“I've been thinking about you and what I'm going to do to you. Have you missed me sub?” he asked.

She replied “ Yes Master” in her soft Scottish lilt.

Master took her face in his hands and leant forward and started to kiss her gently just as I was helping her step out of her jeans ,revealing black and pink crutch less panties and a hairy pussy.

I felt the dagger of jealousy pierce my heart,excruciating but exquisite pain. I became aroused watching Master fuck other subs,his controlled dominance, their submission left me wet,but this intimate act; I wanted to stop this now but was halted by the feel of tributaries of my juices overflowing down my thighs and the hot dripping center between my legs.

I could and would do this for him,I was his slave and his pleasure even if it were gained through my humiliation was paramount.

I took off Masters socks and shoes, kissing each of his feet in reverence before standing up and with shaking fingers undoing his crisp white shirt ,in such proximity taking in his clean, manly scent, removing his cufflinks, all the while Master continuing to kiss sub, running his hand over her ass, massaging her cheeks making her squirm. I let out a moan, whether it was pain or desire even I didn't know,the two were so intertwined.

I was Master’s slave, I had promised him and myself that I would prove my devotion and obedience today; whatever new levels of humiliation and degradation he subjected me to. I would revel in the fact that he took pleasure in the pain that he inflicted.

Once undressed, Master told me to ready sub, grabbing me by the hair and pushing it into subs hairy pussy.

“Eat subs cunt, whore”

I did as he asked running my tongue between her lips hesitantly, sucking on her clit, my hand stroked Masters balls as he continued kissing sub , plundering her mouth with his tongue.

Master held my head firmly against subs pussy, I was struggling to breathe and he moved my head so my face rubbed all over her leaking wet slit covering my faces in her juices.

“Thank sub for allowing you to ready her infinitely, superior tighter pussy, slave”, Master demanded.

I tried my best to obey but my mouth was still buried in her pussy so my answer came out as unintelligible.

“ Do you know what we’re going to do now, sub?”, Master asked.

“No Master” she replied.

“ We’re going upstairs to fuck on slave’s bed so that tonight she’ll have to sleep with the smell of our sex and lay on cum stained sheets”, Master sounded pleased with himself.

This was already a far higher level of humiliation than I had ever been exposed to and my eyes filled with tears but my pussy was throbbing and I was aware of the slick wetness covering my thighs; knowing that the scent of my arousal would be obvious to Master.

He took sub by the hand and lead her up the stairs , leading me on the leash crawling after them.

Once in my bedroom Master positioned me sitting on the floor my head against the bed. He attached a dildo gag to my face and then positioned sub on her hands and knees her pussy directly over my face and the dildo.

He caressed her with his voice, telling her how hard he was thinking about her pleasing him, his fingers grazing her pussy lips teasing her. I moved my fingers towards my cunt but Masters, form “No” stopped me.

“Slave you will not touch yourself, you will not cum. You are merely a tool to pleasure myself and this perfect little sub. You will ache with emptiness as I fill her with my cock”

“ She is a better fuck than you could ever be, I only want her. Look how hard my cock is at the thought of using her holes”

I looked at his beautiful cock and it was harder than I had ever before seen it.

I moaned with need and desire and Master laughed sadistically at my plight.

He held the gag straight and guided sub down onto it, telling her what a good girl she was for him.

My hand stroked Masters balls even as my breath was cut off each time sub lowered herself on to my dildo covered nose and mouth.

Another “ mmmmm” left Masters lips, so deep and primal.

“ That’s right sub, cream all over the dildo for me, such a good girl”

And then to me,

“Are you getting used to your place slave? Subs pussy is so tight, it’s delicious watching her. Of course you’ve probably guessed you’ll be licking the dildo clean later” Master said .

I couldn’t breathe, I was on the edge of tears and yet I was escalating to the edge of orgasm, the throbbing between my legs threatening to undo me.

I had the perfect view of subs cunt and Masters cock as he held subs hips, holding her half on the dildo and then pushed his cock into her ass..

I could smell their combined scent as Master thrust into her ass, see the dildo become slick with subs juices. I could see as Masters balls constricted , knowing he was close to cumming.

Ex and told her to lift herself off the dildo. He stood over me pumping his cock before erupting , directing long streams of cum onto the dildo and my face.

“ There, you look prettier now “ Master said before spitting in my face.

He untied the gag, told me to open up and then said, “Don’t say I’m not generous, clean it and you can taste my cum.”

I licked from the base to the tip, cum still covering my face, relishing the taste of Master’s cum mixed with subs juices. When it was clean he made me kneel with my ass in the air and my head to one side, my cheek resting on the floor.

I heard the distinctive sound of gloves being stretched over hands.

“ I am not entirely heartless slave, I know your needy holes are aching to be filled and your ass has been unused for some time, so I’m going to train it so all MY holes are accessible to me”, Master’s voice caressed as his tone changed.

After spitting on my ass Master pushed a medium plug into my hole, consistent pressure, holding firm as I moaned initially with pain but when the plug slipped inside, my body shook and I had to pant to stop myself from cumming.

Master gently pushed the plug gently in and out of my arsehole and was stroking my pussy with his other hand intentionally holding me at the edge of orgasm. I felt as if any coherent thought was being stroked away.

I knew my begging wouldn’t make any difference but I was past that level of logical thought.

“ Please fuck me Master, please fuck me Master” , I begged and repeated it like a mantra.

He finally took pity on me and plunged his cock into my arse over and over again. The burning pain gave way almost immediately to pleasure and I was now fighting against cumming.

My begging had changed to , “ May I cum my Mastet, please Master?”

He pumped harder and mercilessly before pulling out and pumping his precious cum into my gaping hole.

I moaned and shivered with unslated lust, burning with desire. He pushed his cock into my mouth , saying “ Clean my cock slave”.

I willingly cleaned his cock still covered in my arse juices, I was past caring, I would do anything he wanted to please him.

He moved to sub and took her in his arms on the bed , stroking her hair and kissing her gently.

To me , an instruction. “ Suck her clit and make her cum”.

He took me by the hair and pushed my face into her wet cunt. I sucked and licked until sub came in my mouth her juices flowing .

I was crying now, tears rolling down my cheeks overwhelmed by conflicting emotions.

Master pulled me away and said , “ I’m thirsty go and make sub and I a drink”.

I was aching with need , covered with subs juices and Masters cum.Of everything he had demanded from me this was the hardest, I considered walking away but where would I go it was my house.

He was looking at me appraisingly, we both knew if I did this that would be it, I hesitated and his face remained passive but he knew my internal struggle. Crazy that this simple order should raise such conflict in mr.

“ Yes Master” I replied and went to get them drinks . My fate was sealed.

He smiled and replied “ Good girl”.

[itshaejinju]

Only click read more if you want to know more about me as a person.

I’m not only a nice person, I’m also sarcastic, snide, petty, anxious, romantic - I’m human.

I know you are like, “duh we know that, can’t always be nice.”

But when I express anything else I feel like I’m being shut out. It hurts a lot, hearing just a simple “I’m sorry” is almost as painful as you saying nothing at all.

I understand a lot of people have not gone through what I have and do not know how to deal with that, that is why I don’t talk about it often and let it gather into a filthy ball of fucking hate inside of me until I explode and freak the fuck out on people. I hate to do that I do my best to try and find healthier means of expressing my issues. I write it out. I turn that pain around and put into word, I spit all my emotions onto the screen. So I set myself naked on a pedestal to be seen with what I posted.

I fall often to pick myself up because I find if I ask someone to help me they will let go because they see something prettier to pay attention to.

Ever since I was a tender age of 8 I was told that if ANYONE touches you they want to have sex with you that you shouldn’t touch anyone because sex is bad. Because sex is wrong. Because no one really wants to be friends with you they just want sex. This was from parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, hell even my brother (once he got older) told me this to the point that I totally believed it.

Which spurned a lot of my sexual adventures in my older age as I became out of my shy shell and was rather outgoing so when anything would happen even something simple as a friendly hug I would associate as someone wanting me sexually. Like one would think I could be just like it’s a hug from a coworker because you had a bad day but with what I had been drilled in my mind daily that it was something “bad” that they wanted me only to have sex. It brings a lot of strange notions to the mind.

As now I’m free of that family and that life I am trying to relearn touch. Trying to associate it purely with what it is meant whether is sexual or just friendly. So I tend to now just freeze when someone does hug me or touch me because mentally I’m trying to figure out what it is suppose to mean. I’m trying to reorganize it in my brain. Does not mean I don’t appreciate it just means I have to process.

It is something I have to relearn, I have to do before I could think about being romantically with someone. It’s about the healing process I need to go through. It’s not easy.

I found it’s hard for me after what had happened to me to have my brother nearly kill me twice in my life that being touched by a male makes me rather nervous. Hence my comfort in the fictional men. As there is also apart of me that is rather uncomfortable around females in a small sense more relate to me feeling not good enough as I failed to take care of the most important female in my life my mother.

I suffer with Bipolar Disorder Type 2, I get depressed easy. My emotions on a daily basis is up and down constantly, I can generally keep it all in check but there are times when it just blows the fuck up and there isn’t much I can do about it. It just is how it is I legitimately cannot control it a 100% of the time, boy I would love to. But even with insurance and medicine it is not able to be controlled 100%.

I do my best to reply to all the chats I get to be supportive and helpful to all that come to me for advice, comfort and just general talk. It does hurt to have very little thanks for it, I do stop what I’m doing to respond to the message I interrupt my thought process to read what is going on. I understand that you do now know what I’m doing so you don’t know if you are bothering me. Simple things of saying good morning to me before bombarding me with stuff is polite or just asking how I’m doing.

I do my best to read all that I’m tagged in and leave a reply. It’s common courtesy because as a writer I know that we put a lot of heart and soul into things. That what we do is not easy and it is emotionally and physically draining. To see a like is nice reblog is fantasic to see a comment with that is mind blowing. It feels good to know what someone things about it either it be in the tags or in the comment section. It is nice to know what someone thinks about it to be a confidence booster. I always love to see someone comment on it or bombard my chat with “omg so hot!” “That was evil why did you do that to me, poor so-and-so!” Such things it’s nice makes me feel like writing more.

To see others get their inbox flooded with stuff, a ton of others get reblogs on their things with such crazy replies makes me jealous. Seriously my sin is Envy and Lust. I appreciate what I get don’t get me wrong and I don’t want people to be all flippant to add extra frills to what they reblog of my stuff or say to me. That pity I do not crave it’s just how I feel. There isn’t much I can do beyond get the fuck over it. To stop being a child about it. I am happy that my fellow writers and friends do well, their talent is amazing.

I understand my writing style is rather different than most. I’ve been told that it’s raw and purely emotional. I am taking that as a good thing. You will never see my writing with substitutes for cock or pussy (beyond like dick and vagina) you will not see me skirt around things that will make people sad. You will see errors in grammar, you will see run on sentences I have a grade school education in English, with the rest self taught to myself by myself.

I get severe anxiety each time I post something as I’m exposing myself to everyone to read this. I am getting better with it, I use to just stare at the phone looking for alerts but now I can just do other things as long as the phone is nearby. Desperate I know. I crave approval, I crave that pat on the head that what I just poured out to you was at least half way decent. What I did was good.

I am better at loving my own writing, I can read it over now I use to not be able to do so it was hard I couldn’t even read the slightest parts of it because I hated it so much. I will sometimes read them over before bed to calm down to relax.

Lastly:

I’m slowly starting to appreciate myself. It’s not easy when I was always shun for speaking about things for talking about my emotions. That when I did speak that my “jaded view of the world” was too much to deal with. My family would hate to hear me discredit any holiday because it is too materialistic or a phrase used too much because we just have to say we love everything. That I’m too morbid that I enjoy pain of others too much. I am a woman of actions speak louder than words, me writing things for you is my way of me saying I care for you, that I adore you, that I want you to feel better by reading what I wrote. Anyone can just spout out words but doing something to show it is more valuable and important to me. Cooking a meal or buying your favorite snack is something I find more special just saying the words. A lot of people don’t see those actions as means of caring for one but I do. I’ve been told a lot by my “family” that I was loved then them to turn around and do something abusive to me. So “I love you” still has a lot of rough feelings to me as it is just is words. Even all the times they hurt me I still went out of my way to cook, clean, take care of my sick mother to show I cared despite what they did.

I am trying to love the good things about me. It’s like looking at those items through a very dirty window for me. You guys might see it so easily but I cannot and it is rather hard some days to accept those things about myself and just go with the things that are natural. The things I don’t like about myself and the things that aren’t that good. To me those things are huge and crazy and the good is so small. I don’t want to speak much of that pain I inflict on myself, I have a fic I’m working on that will go over it. I want to appreciate my honesty, my openness, my creativity. It will be slow but I will do so.

Okay I’m done venting and rambling. This is just a bunch of rambling that has been on my mind and things I need to say. I’m not feeling suicidal I’m just emotionally drained.

If you read this know that I do appreciate you fully, I’m hoping you understand my feelings.

Now I’ll go back to producing some actual content.

- Jin

[chxtney-blog]

Taking Ctrl With SZA

Life changing albums are few and uncommon, and Sza's Ctrl is definitely one of those rare gems. No piece of art better addresses the insecurities, the vulnerability, and the uncertainty accompanied with the transition to adulthood. Growing up means coming to terms with the fact that a lot of questions will be unanswered. Realizing that you won't necessarily end up where you thought you'd be. Accepting that the people you desperately cling onto can end up leaving. There are no guidelines to this whole life thing and that's hitting me particularly hard right now.

The loss of control and grappling with the fact that there are no instructions to achieving my life goals translates to a lot of fear and anxiety influencing my decisions, but rather than staying in my comfort zone, I forcefully push my boundaries. I fear boredom, misery, and mediocrity far more than I fear moving across the country, going to events by myself, and meeting new people. Perhaps I'm not ready for the things I get into, yet that doesn't stop me. Like everyone, I seek comfort. I create a home for myself in other things, and especially in other people.

I can't remember the last time I wasn't involved with someone. Romantic interests are a tempting distraction from the lack of a solid support system and a quick fix to the fear of loneliness and abandonment. I drop and pick up someone new every couple of months - mainly because I fear commitment, or maybe because I don't actually like them. I keep them because, like Sza, I get so lonely I forget what I'm worth. And every once in awhile someone I actually want to be with will come around, but they won't want me back. I'm sure everyone can relate. We've all gotten emotionally invested in someone who will never be available for us despite knowing that from the get-go

The worst part of being invested in someone who couldn't care less about you is the insecurities that sprout up because of it. Years worth of building up confidence is compromised because of one person. An undeserving, unappreciative idiot. As if being young and confident wasn't hard enough.

“Cause it’s hard enough you got to treat me like this, Lonely enough to let you treat me like this”

Despite knowing how toxic this person is, I come running back to them. I settle for their lack of effort and trick myself into thinking I can do all the work for us. Giving free emotional labor for a person who doesn't give a second thought to my own emotions. I'm scared I'll never find anyone who makes me feel this way, who understands me, who let's me be me. It's really a silly thought, especially considering my age and limited exposure to dating, but logic and emotions don't always see eye-to-eye. I can't help feeling the way that I feel.

While everything around me is in flux, it's nice to believe that someone will hold me down. There's a person to cry to, a person who cares, a person who'll give. Even if it's only for a little while. Even if it's an illusion. I'll settle for the fantasy of companionship.

“Hope you never find out who I really am ’Cause you’ll never love me, you’ll never love me”

Alas, all fairytales come to an end. Eventually, the situation will open a new wave of insecurities that didn't exist before. Then when it all blows over I'll sit back and obsess over the whole thing. Maybe if I was prettier they'd stay? Maybe if I was less talkative they'd like me? Maybe if I was this or that things would be different?

“Do you even know I’m alive?”

I mean I can change my appearance and try to alter my personality, but do they even care? What's the point of changing yourself for someone who has already moved on? Why am I looking for the solution for fear, abandonment, uncertainity in an individual just as confused and scared as I am?

“Normal girl, I wish I was a normal girl”

And sometimes I just want a break from this all. I want to go lay under my covers and nap until I wake up and all my questions are answered and my life is sorted out. Nap until I wake up and am thirty, flirty, and thriving. I firmly believe if I stayed near home, majored in something that made money, and settled for the men around me my life would be simpler, more structured. But I'd also be miserable. Becoming the strong woman I desire to be is a lengthy process. It isn't always an upward trajectory, but I choose to believe the effort I put in will reap rewards. I'll get my degree, live where I want, and get a well-paying job, and I'll also have depth of character. I'll gain an experience and understanding that only comes with stepping out and exploring. Normal is comfortable, but normal is also mind numbingly, painfully boring.  

Despite all of the pain others and I have inflicted on myself, I'm going to dust myself off and try again. The biggest takeaway from the album for me is acceptance. Learning to accept the negatives that come with the positives. I can't be strong 100% of the time. A lot of women empowerment conversations, especially in music, center around looking our best, earning well, and establishing our dominance - that's all great, but being transparent about our vulnerability and flaws is equally important. Addressing our insecurities are crucial in our healing process. Ctrl lets young adults like me know that we're not dumb or stupid for making mistakes and feeling unsure, and we're certainly not alone in this never-ending process of growing up.  

“I belong to nobody Hope it don’t bother you You could mind your business I belong to nobody Try not to disturb And mind my business”

As much as I celebrate my individuality, I too crave acceptance, but I have to remind myself time and time again that I belong to myself. So many of my peers are pursuing careers they're not passionate about for the sake of money. So many people I know are settling and getting married young because they don't want to be single in their late 20's. So many people are living their lives based on the terms of their parents or what those around them expect from them. Especially my fellow South Asian peers. Don't they want to make their own choices? Be their own person? Maybe I'm young and naive and will eventually follow what is expected of me, but I'd rather believe I'm too head-strong and determined for all of that.

“I’ve been on the low key grinding Learning on the low key, shining Tryin’ to keep to myself”

Only once we have addressed our issues can we take back control. I've never really been much of a go-with-the-flow type of person, and I don't advocate for us to fall back and give up so easily. Cut off toxic people, notice red flags when they first appear, focus on yourself. The extrovert in me loves going to concerts, events, and shows to meet new people, but I'm sure many find that joy in keeping to themselves.

Then again, control is a myth, so rather than obsessing over mapping out your path, master the art of adapting to detours. Sza's album tells us to give ourselves the space to breathe, process our emotions, and adjust to what life has handed to us without letting it consume us. At the end of the day maturity isn't solely defined by what we have the strength to endure, but what we choose to walk away from and walk towards instead. 

[tropixos]

alpha.

the beginning of the end or . . . 

everything about you is opaque 

It’s too early to be writing about you.

But for some god forsaken unknown reason (why is it that my life is perpetually made up of questions, of what ifs and maybes and what if I don’ts—what if I dos) I find myself thinking of you at 3:33 am and it’s the first day of spring and I’d be lying if I’d say I didn’t think of you all day.

You haven’t even done anything wrong yet, anything worth spilling words on paper and letting my fingers become sore after hours and hours of endless typing yet here I am, sitting in front of my computer (a tired face illuminated by the soft glow of the screen, brows dipped in concentration, lips draw in and bitten swollen in thought).

I’ll find something wrong about you, I always do. I’ll turn your sweet into sour, your kindness into cruelness. I’ll find a way to make you my villain, while I play coy as victim. I’ll find a way to make my lip curl in disdain at the mere mention of your name. I’ll find a way to hate you, it’s easier than you think.

But not right now, not when it’s 3:38 am and I still feel a butterfly or three fluttering deep down there.

Not now, when I feel like I can’t breath when your close to me, not now when I finally exhale when you leave.

So I’ll tell you why I like you.

You talked to me on my first day of training, said to me the same things that everyone did my first day (“You’ll do fine, there’s nothing to worry about, I’ll be here if you need help”) but you said it with a smile, with your nose scrunched up and fingers readjusting your glasses (I’ve always been a sucker for a boy with terrible eyesight—makes me feel prettier somehow)

You talked to me on my second day of training, and recognized me when I came in after work with friends (I’ll never tell you the measure of gratitude I felt because it might reveal something too deep, too secret, but it made me happy—you made me smile because you made me feel like I was already making a home here)

You continued to talk to me, made horrible corny jokes (You laugh at your own jokes and I can’t even make fun of you for it because I do too), made me feel comfortable enough to approach you and tell my own fair share of horrible corny jokes (I would wait with a slight bated breath for your laughter, and exhale with a smile when you did)

You sat in the passenger seat of my car, let me tell you about the concerts I’ve been too (I’ve always liked to talk about music, about the way it makes me feel, about the songs I listen to at 4 am when I should be sleeping but instead I’m thinking of impossible scenarios and fearing the outcomes of them).

Your fingers found my sleeves and you pulled me closer to you when I tried to walk away, I didn’t care that we were at work at the time—I could’ve kissed you right then and there because I like to feel the pressure of fingertips on my wrist and you were smiling and looking at me like I was something special and I had to go to the stockroom to release a silent explosion of a million and one emotions that you inflicted in a matter of two seconds.

You are a nice boy, and I have the unhealthy tendency to fall in love with every boy who is nice to me but sometimes I think you are much more than that. I think that you are a nice boy who can talk to everyone you meet like you’ve known them for ages, like you were childhood friends and played hide and go seek in the summertime together.

You, you, you…

A song I don’t really want to sing but the lyrics repeat themselves in my head.

I think it would be nice to fall in love with you, I can throw the idea in my head and make it beautiful and endless.

I think it would be nicer if you doused the fire, killed the embers before I could.

I think that falling in love with you would bring a pain that I’ve already been acquainted, when I look at you I can see the promise of heartache attached to your shoulders, I can see it written in your bones and filling your lungs.

I don’t think I’ll give this a chance (coward)

I’ll let you go before I even have you, to save myself the pain (coward)

I’ll erase the fever from my skin, the memory of your fingers on thighs, the press of your kiss on my neck before it can scar me (coward)

I think that I like you a little to much right now. I’ll find myself doing random things in during the day and your face appears in my mind like a whisper, constantly reminding me that you’re there, that your real.

I’ll find myself doing silly, girlish things like spending an extra nineteen minutes on my hair even though you probably wouldn’t notice a difference.

I’ll find myself searching and scanning and conjuring up different excuses to talk to you, to send you that text message, to be present in your life.

I’ll find myself hearing you in lyrics of songs that strike a little too deep, that hit a little too hard (I switch the song to something lighter, something that doesn’t send images of you flickering through my brain)

My friends tell me to let you go—that or tell you the truth, tell you that I have this thing for you but I’m not that desperate, or that crazy. Also, I have a glass fragile heart (the slightest of hits can send the whole thing shattering into sixty-five billon pieces) and your rejection would be enough to send it tumbling down.

I wish I could tell you, to let the words fall from my lips in a string of sentences and watch your face as I unveil my secrets to you.  

I wish I could have a free pass into your mind, that I could read the string of thoughts that flicker through your brain when you see me, or talk to me, or talk about me. It would be so much simpler to figure you out if I could just see through you like you were transparent but you’re not.

Everything about you is opaque.

From the way that you treat me like I am the only person to exist in this universe to the next to completely denying me any semblance of affection the next day leaves me spinning (still struggling to catch my breath)

I wish I didn’t like boys like you.

Boys who pick me up, consider me for a moment before dropping me in disinterest and walking away.

I wonder what it would be like to be your first choice, would you still treat me like this? Or would you help me love you the way that I wish I could if you’d just be honest with me for a second? Or would you still treat me like I’m disposable—like I’m a plastic girl who only becomes real when you want me to be?

It’s still to early to be writing about you, despite the monsoon of unwarranted emotions you have seamlessly provoked, despite me conjuring up a million and one daydreams about you and me and the things we are..and the things we aren’t.

Despite everything, despite the words I’ve hastily glued into messy sentences, it is way too early to write about you.

Still, think of this as a confession of some sorts. Think of this as me, pouring out words left unsaid to you onto a word document that you will never, ever get your hands on (unless you pry it from my cold, dead fingers).

Still, it’s too early to be writing about you.

[putrefactionsscribbles]

I’d like to be able to say that, at some point, my parents simply fell out of love with each other. That’s because saying they fell out of love with each other implies that they loved each other at some point, and that would be nicer than them getting hitched because they both figured they couldn’t do any better.

The sad thing is, I don’t really believe that there was ever any real love there. Fondness, maybe. A companionship devoid of any blood-pumping passion. But not love.

I’m a pawn in their passive aggressive games. They use me as a trophy—as an object with which they can say “aha, look! I must be in the right if our kid is siding with me” without actually saying it. I am forced to play mediator, to play liaison, to play adult, and it is exhausting. I fix my father’s cell phone, explaining how to use the same apps over and over, watching my mother putter about the kitchen silently, offering no assistance. I engage my father in conversation, letting out an awkward chuckle as he informs me about something a child has no business hearing about from their father—a vulgar joke that leaves my stomach churning like a stormy sea, a sexual anecdote from his college years that makes my cheeks burn and my eyes dart around to make sure no one has overheard, an offhand comment about one of my failings that hurts more than a slap ever could—and give my mother her out, so she doesn’t have to speak to this man she abhors so much. I keep my seat as the door to his bedroom slams, I keep my mouth shut as my mother rants and raves about how horrible my father is, I keep to myself to avoid the many battles waged in this war of a loveless marriage, a wan smile playing across my lips when my absence from the family goes noticed.

The ache that comes with seeing my family broken—shattered by some trauma we tiptoe around, avoiding it like a deadly disease, afraid that if we so much as mention it our lives will be in shambles once more—has not faded with time. I am envious of my friends with their parents who love them and love each other, who see their marriage vows as something more than a crude parody of love. My heart breaks when I hear of their own struggles with their parents; my eyes water as the many abuses are recounted, shared in the utter darkness of cars, whispers that will never leave my memory. With every story of pain and misery brought about by our life-givers, my hopes and dreams of a good family—not a perfect family, but a good one, just good—crumble. I joke about not wanting kids to my mother. I point to my incompetence with day-to-day chores as a reason why I should never have children. I call them monsters, gremlins, and I convince myself I don’t want them. I picture hands covered in snot, bibs covered in throw up, and tiny faces scrunched up in an expression of rage. I imagine the piercing cries in the dead of night.

I see myself crying over my child, begging them to stop. I hear myself screaming at them, telling them to give it a rest, telling them I hate them, I hate them, I hate them. I can feel the worthless apologies falling from my lips; I can feel the way my heart clenches because I know that I will never make up for the outburst. Not really. My child will cling to those statements in their darkest hours, reliving them and holding them up as proof of their inherent badness. I know this because I have done the same.

The crude oinks hang in the air. I feel sick to my stomach.

The look of hatred on my brothers’ faces won’t go away. I feel the urge to slap them.

The joke—it’s just a joke, Lee, don’t you see, it’s just a joke, you’re overreacting—falls flat. I feel like screaming.

The hurts have piled up over the years, and I sift through them on occasion. I recount them to my therapists, frowning when they tell me that’s wrong, that parents shouldn’t do that, that it’s abuse. That I am not this worthless thing my parents make me out to be. I am strong. I am smart. I am kind.

They feel like lies.

They say I am brave, but I feel like a coward. They say I am bright, but I feel like a fool. They say I am loved, but I feel like an outcast. I accept their praise, smiling wide—too wide, just teeth, lips disappearing as they peel back, more feral than appreciative—and give my thanks. I don’t believe them. It’s too late. The sweet words, the kind words, the loving words do nothing to soothe my self-hatred. The endless validation from my friends do not bolster my self-confidence. My mother blinks at me on a car ride, expression confused. “You are beautiful, Lee. I don’t know why you can’t see that.”

“Don’t think you’re better than other people. Don’t try to be the best, there will always be someone better. Don’t get a big head.” She said those things to me when I was a child. She wanted to teach me humility. Is this humility, mom? Am I finally humble? I am worth no more than anyone else; I am no more talented than my peers; I am not smarter or better or prettier or nicer than anyone. I am average at my best, far below average at my worst. I am dumb and hideous and fat and mean. Nobody wants me around. I know this; I’ve come to terms with this, yet when I mention it, when I assert it aloud, you look horrified. “You’re smart, Lee. You’re obviously smart.”

The hatred is all-consuming at times. I can barely live with myself. I am hideous, I am enormous, I am awful. I am dumb, I am awkward, I am rude. Sometimes a horrible thought forces its way into my consciousness and I wonder if maybe it would be better to not be around, if nonexistence could be better than the constant agony of being myself. I pour the pills on my bed sheets. I poise the knife over my arm. I sit on the window sill.

I stop myself every time.

I confide in my friends. “Don’t do it; you’re stronger than this,” they tell me. “Suicide is selfish—you have no idea how much it would hurt everyone you love,” they inform me. Selfish. Another personal defect to add to my laundry list of shortcomings.

All roads lead back to dear mommy and daddy. I stuff my face and avoid the scale. I go to the gym and watch my thighs jiggle with disgust. I avoid my studies and foist the responsibility for my bad grades onto the teacher, onto my distracting classmates, onto my lack of time. I make plans and promptly cancel them. I download dating apps and convince myself that all the matches must think they can pull the wool over my eyes, that I look like the type of girl who would fall for the flattery, fall straight into their beds. Nobody could ever find me beautiful. What is it they say? Nobody can love you unless you love yourself.

Well.

I suppose that means nobody loves me.

Love is pain, they say. Love is hard work. Love is putting someone before yourself.

I play tech support for my father so my mother won’t feel uncomfortable. I engage my father in conversation so he won’t feel so alone. I don’t accuse them of causing my problems. I lay the blame on myself—on my horrible, awful self. I pretend I like hearing my mother complain of my father’s latest antics, offering sympathetic words and astounded head shakes. I pretend I understand my father’s stories as he waxes on about his glory days, nodding at all the right places, inserting a comment here or there. I pretend that I don’t mind being the glue that holds our family together. I pretend that I like my place in the family. I pretend that it doesn’t hurt that my brothers hold my parents’ love. I pretend that I don’t mind being good old reliable Lee. I pretend that the scars on my hands are from my cat, are from falling, are anything but self-inflicted. I pretend that I don’t think about killing myself.

Sometimes I almost believe it. This act I put on, this mask I wear, this façade I keep going to hide the real me. The me that viciously pinched her stomach when she was younger, the me that sliced my hand open and watched it bleed as punishment for cancelling a date, the me that lays awake at night thinking about dying. The me that laughingly says she won’t make it past thirty. The me that insists I’d be a horrible parent. The me that desperately wants to be anybody else.

“Everyone feels that way, Lee. It’s normal. You’re overreacting.”

“Does the piggie want seconds? Do you really think you need anymore?”

“Shut up! Everyone knows you’re daddy’s little angel!”

“I hate both of you! All you can makes is ugly children!”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“It was just a joke.”

“God, I fucking hate you.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Sometimes I really wish you weren’t my sister.”

“She thinks we’re idiots. She’s just trying to make fools of us to get a laugh. Isn’t that right, Lee?”

“Oh, look who finally came out of their room! We were starting to think you were dead.”

“Could you just shut the hell up?”

“Stop being so sensitive.”

“Sometimes I wish you weren’t here.”

I wonder if they know that I wish I wasn’t here either.

Family is a life sentence. People say it isn’t, but it is for a coward like me. I will never run away. I will never cut off contact. I will never be honest with them. I will stay here until it kills me. And it will kill me.

It’s only a matter of time.