the habit of being

You come to me all nervous and shaky, full of this weird awkward energy that spills out in giggles and ummms and other inarticulatenesses. You apologize for coming, I so obviously didn’t want you to, saying you did it because you care. You say you feel guilty for not knowing how I felt, for not letting me act the way I needed to act. You had no idea what I was going through, you say with tears, honestly, in your eyes. With my near utter lack of sympathy, in light of your utter cluelessness, I can barely look you in the eye. I am stark, unfeeling save the desperate need not to have to deal with this.

I have pushed you away, so that you have come to this. You are weak and I don’t have the time or the energy to support you. I treat you the way I have been treated. Knowing this, I want out. In so many words (none), I tell you this. Still, you’ll counter with a surreal and poetic little story about French films and dreams and the sun - a story you won’t have anyone else to tell because no one else you know will find it beautiful in its silliness. I see that sort of beauty and find it bothersome. I see your shaky torrential emotion and find it irritating. I want you to get out of my room. I want you to take your untried unconditional love and get it away from me. I gave you a red journal with a bookmark and your first sexual experience - what else do you want from me?

The thought of your spastic unending embraces, your clingy body, heavy thighs, sprouty penis, and drowning eyes makes me feel sick. The thought of you sitting in your room writing poetry for me, rushing about in a daze unable to concentrate for the thought of me, the only girl you ever wanted, disgusts me. You are like a little child. You are a pansy.

You run to a shrink because you are so miserable and confused, not because I have all but abandoned you after a good month of acting the part of devoted girlfriend, without a word of honest explanation (I met someone who could fuck me somewhat decently), but because you think you’ve treated me badly. Perhaps in some way you have to really, what a joke! What do you know about treating someone badly. You lightweight! You girl! You couldn’t hurt me if your life depended on it; you don’t even know how to touch me.

You give me a book I’m sure I’ll love. You know what appeals to my aesthetic; you can pick the stories I’ll think are about me and thus appreciate. I am utterly and forever closed off from you and you are so lost you cannot see straight, trying to figure out what it is you’ve done. You wouldn’t heed my warnings, and look where it’s gotten you. Go away, little boy, hide your heart. Your innocence is lost on me; I am out of your league. Share your emotions with someone they can still touch.