I can’t live scared of blood. This is my medium, my glory that lifts me from everyday in into time. I count by blood as if every month were written on a wall with my careful bodypainted fingertip.
I can live with enough. It is not nice and I will not claim it to be satisfying, but it is survival. To expect more is simple bitter idiocy. There is no way for me to fairly claim more. I don’t deserve it, there’s no reason for me to ask it. To want more is always there, ignored. What I need is to be addressed, not what I want. It always seems the simplest way. It doesn’t have to be happy if it works.
Then comes my chemical nightmare. My onetime connection with myself. I would love it if I were allowed to. I was a painful fool tonight. It’s not my place to expect. It’s not my place to assume. I expected when I asked to be granted a little more to match my enough. To taste for a moment the lucky half of the deal. I’m sitting here in the dark cursing myself. There is no justification for expecting anything other than rejection when it’s all I receive. I’m going to head out soon, go home to my personless room. Needing and having nothing when I’m alone is expected. It’s the closest I have to normal. I can’t stay. Being thrown away three times will be too much.
Tomorrow he leaves.