Down In Me

I see the veins in my hands. Maybe due to the cold, my skin’s translucence allows me to see the green and purple lines travelling from my palms, branching outwards through the tips of my fingers. I never noticed them before. I noticed the new wrinkles in the skin on the back of my hand a few years back now. I decided then that life was finally beginning to wear on me. Down on me. Wear me down. How little I knew then in comparison to the even less I know now.

I touch my fingertips together in a specific way to release the tension when I am feeling that particular unease, though it does little to alleviate my baseless fears. He noticed it once, decades ago and ignited the awareness, suggesting something hideously wrong with my mannerisms. Something to be molded into a rather more acceptable form. Something that must always be done while other things are coming undone. I am exhausted from teetering carefully on this farcical edge.

I flashback to your hands, palest white and strangely even, like the clichéd surface of a rose petal. The palms and fingertips calloused at every fold, the wretched jagged nails, dirty and unkempt like so much else about you. I sense your fingertip moving inwards along my palm, tracing the trails of my lifeblood. I feel a ragged nail graze my softness tenderly. It runs over the scars and beyond, to the flesh of my forearm. Fingertips feel their way through distant patches that were never perturbed.

I cry out for that touch sense existing only in that moment that has now slipped coldly through my aching grasp.

I am the walking dead again. A lifeless body that smooths along without trace. A ghost whose hold cannot be held or sensed, much less inhaled or tasted. The myriad faces that barely swirl the air around me are clear white unrecognisable. I am clouded by the blurry view over my swollen, reddened eyes. I am enveloped in a heavy shroud of dew and mist and dust and clouds and self horror.

I’m awake but no one can tell. There’s no one to whisper good morning. I open a small slit in the blinds just big enough to see a sliver of the outside. No one knows. The harsh bright reality is jarring and I let go immediately. If I tripped and fell down the stairs and hit my head and died right now no one would know for weeks. Maybe months. No one knows that I’m having coffee and not tea. I know it’s been raining because I hear the cars splashing outside. No one knows I’m here alone. No one knows that I haven’t done my laundry for weeks or that I haven’t paid a bill for months. I hear my neighbors talk and laugh outside. They don’t know I’m here. They don’t know I can hear them. A child screams and giggles, completely unaware that I envy him. The postman jams junk through the letter hole startling me. He doesn’t know I’m here. I try to read a book that no one knows I’m reading. Is it night yet? Can I go to sleep and disown myself for a few hours? Hopefully I won’t dream. Just dark, quiet, stillness. Try to make it last. It doesn’t. I’m awake again but no one can tell.

I want to apologize for that last post. I’m not sure to who, but bear with me, I’m going somewhere, I think.

I meant to write a staggering piece on the beauty of a simple look and it’s ability to communicate, to take hold, to inspire. Instead in an immature fit of sexual frustration mingling with guilt and self-hate I spewed forth the disgraceful soliloquy in question. I have since relieved myself in many ways including a shower and some much needed sleep and sobering up and my thoughts now are, if not clearer, at least more open.

I’m ashamed of what I wrote because it belongs in that category of things one may think but one should never voice. And yet I can’t bring myself to delete it. It is self-destructive, obnoxious and not very good writing. But it is cruelly honest. And it is me.

So as much as it’s been pestering me and festering at the back of my mind since I hit that fateful publish button, I’m going to resist the aching urge to delete it. I guess what this means is that in the end, I’m doing this for me.

I’m apologizing for being so unkind and careless with myself, for allowing a couple of online strangers to see it and for generally being a shit writer with stupidly good intentions, an overactive imagination and a shamefully high sex drive.

Of course, I can’t promise there isn’t more where that came from as I’m sure we’ve only just skimmed the surface. But there might be some good stuff coming from somewhere deep down below, too.

Yes. It’s there. I promise not to relent until I find it.

He’s giving her that fucking look.

The waitress. She’s pretty in an offbeat way which irritates me all the more. If he wasn’t giving her the look I may have well given her my own look. But I’m here with him and he’s giving HER the look. And it grinds my flesh that the look makes me tingle in that special fucking place when it’s not directed at me.

Of course it’s not directed at you, stupid bitch. You’re not worthy of the look.

Fuck I love the way he orders her to fetch and shows his satisfaction with the results. I’m burning! Searing red hot heat of frustration. I would fetch and heel and roll over in a second. But really I just want to suck his cock. I would do it right here and now and he hasn’t got a clue! He wouldn’t even have to fuck me. I just want to kneel at his feet, take his whole cock in my mouth and look up to see him giving ME that look. Right before his eyes roll back because it’s so fucking good.

What a shameless, depraved, stupid, oversexed, wanton, desperate loser. Besides which you give awful head.

Why can’t I just give it to him straight? Listen, I know this is going to sound a bit mad but I don’t want the chicken stinking tikka. I want your cock. In my mouth. NOW.Yeah right. You? Speak your mind? Register a need and some sort of semblance of spirit behind that placid mask? Heh.

Oh. My. God. Why is it so hot in here? Is he seriously going to keep chatting away? The pub and the girl and the what with who? I have no idea what he’s talking about and now he’s going to ask me an intelligent question and I’m going to fumble through an awkward response and he’s going to know that I’ve been doing nothing but picturing myself giving him head the whole night!Oh ferfucksakes! Shut the fuck up and eat your chicken. Cunt.