From Thirst Madness

I survived another's infidelity, and had planned to remain obdurate in refusing any such dalliances on my part. Not out of any virtue, but out of spite. To be able to reach the grave before you and in my dying breath say, "You were the only one to commit such evil."

But when faced with a thirst we have known for so long, that it is again coming back into fashion some three thousand years later, I faltered. I hoped I might be afforded some bliss.

So I stumbled awkwardly at the opportunity I imagined whole cloth. Apparently.

And instead of enjoying the mixture of our bodies, I enjoy the rotten, fleshy fruit of my own filthy nature, and the sad aroma of your offense and renewed despair.

Let's frame it all properly. I am not the victim. I am the aggressor. I revealed a creep where some had mistakenly perceived a being of intelligent chivalry. Your divorce, announced with striking suddenness, was never meant to be the bark of a starting gun. My own failure to create joy and meaning from earlier mixtures should never have been a catalyst. So parched as to become drunk, I proposed the improper.

Events repeat themselves, smoothing out time's wide bend. But the coarse grain of experience tears away my flesh. I will hold myself to this whetstone.

I seek to castigate myself before a committee of beautiful, successful people. Make all the contrasts between them and myself an edifice to polarities. My sin may seem small in a global context, but I should be obliterated for it. Because I am not handsome or virile.

Let my penance be a long life of having to move this repulsive shell about a world obsessed with bliss, while, for me, it shall forever, purposefully, remain just out of touch behind a thin, weak, red string cordon. Force me to serve those in the midst of a lascivious and orgiastic undertaking. No eunuch, but a male beset with desire, forbidden forever from participation.

I was wrong.

Time to start putting the walls back in place.

Add some final touches.

Close the doors.

Feel the heart valves tighten.

Fill a caulking gun with shame and seal everything.

Stunned back into reality but my own ineptitude.

You could never read women before, why now?

Because of thirst.

Unquenchable thirst has brought the truth to light.

An unexpected reminder no one wants me.

That my sex un-life is triply cursed.

That my sense of self is made for nails.

Hammer on me, year after year.

Bend me out of shape, leaving an ugly mess of flattened metal disturbing the wood beneath.

Eventually I will be only the deformed and repellent metallic layer.

A thousand puncture wounds hidden underneath.

In this life I am an offense.

I am filled with desire: its surging vector barely controlled.

But mirrors turn dark when faced with its source: me.

I wanted you, but not in a way that fit your being.

"You want sex? Well, I'm here for love."

Well spoken. A proper defense that shattered my feverish whims.

You have set us both free to be our better selves.

And I can feel that the best place for me to place my remains,

Is behind a veil of great silence and abyssal darkness.

Now I am in a position to do great harm. I do not want to spew my pathos all about, for no one should change their way of being to stifle my sobs.

Was it worse that I had hoped to disport myself with you? Or is it worse that it’s me having wished that, and not some gorgeous human example of genetic apotheosis?

The universe states, wordlessly, silently, "You are undeserving."

Ejaculate, elevate, enervate, disintegrate.

For us this is permitted.

Not for you.