You have your caped crusaders with their epic wars and little guns, but this is my smoking weapon. There’s something in me that wants to write tonight. It could be that I’m stuck at home. I can’t walk right now, a cripple for a day or two because my dancing is hard on the body. I don’t know what the reason is, but there’s things inside my head buzzing. A thought about the girl you told her you loved her, but you didn’t. Was it lying if you thought it was the truth? We’re all lonely, you know. It’s my epiphany, knowing that. I’m in control now of all of you because I’m beautiful. Words and words and words, unconnected by maybe going somewhere. I don’t know what to do with them and I’m tired. Something’s melting in my head.
It feels like a resistance to something, something I don’t know if I can take. I need to be aware at all times of the reality of what’s going on. There is no slipping into reverie. I can’t let go, it’s wrong to. Pragmatic in all, I don’t get fantasies, I don’t picture scenes when I’m reading. I’m not sure why I’m writing this, but I’m dulled by pain and exhaustion. Defenses down and I never talk about it.
I’m terrified of losing control. I usually blame my father but it’s so much more. Every time I grab a lover by the wrist and pin their arm above their head I think how easy it would be to break their arm. Insanity runs in the family, it’s generations of seeing ghosts and demons. Our genetics sing violence. I want it to not be me, but what if it is? I should be fine for now, but what when I head into thirty? I need to be solid. We have a temper, we do. Thick and red, it acidly eats the hearts of our enemies, it stabs and kicks and scalps us of sanity. Mine is so far thrown down that I wonder if I can touch it anymore. I can’t be dangerous, I won’t let me.
Tomorrow I will read this and wonder why. Let me sleep.