L-Dopa (Borderline II)

El Dopa.

The dope.

That's not a real cognate.
The white queen, my sweet dihydroxyphenyl lover
It creates happiness and excitement and
Eternal mouthless hells where nor-and-regular-epinephrine torment me deservingly.
I am not happy. I can't even tell what's real.
The trite saying that love is a drug is true to members of my club
Holding meetings where anyone who gets off on adulation and attachment and access and ass and adrenaline and adultery are welcome.

Darling delicious Dopamine.
Somehow I've convinced two dozen men to sleep with me and dozens of women to waste their time on me.
My relationship with them reflects on me worse and on them better.
Often misleading, or irresistibly mysterious,
Mean polarized with nice.
Something about me has an allure.
Not incredibly attractive yet consistently handsome
The intricate push-pull of my vacillating attachments puts screws in people's hearts.

I'm exactly as painful as I sound.
I'm sorry.
I hate myself more than you hate me, though.
You can go away, now, just like everyone else.
Everything is temporary anyway. Leave me alone.
I'm a borderline personality and
I expect you to hate me for it.
But that sounds like it's not my fault--it is.
Everything is.
And isn't.

I can't pin down anything because my awareness changes in the breeze.
I always thought I won relationships because I didn't screw up.
When I disguise my win as a loss because there's so little of me there in the first place
If someone likes me I'm filled in with their bathroom mirror selfie and
I'm a whiteboard for a misguided subconscious desire for perfection
I'm perfect sometimes but I'm often ugly and I hate how badly I need your approval.
I'm broken and even trying to reassemble the mirror gives me glass slivers.
I'm double-business bound:Too good for hell and too bad for heaven
I'm simply who I am.
Just like you.

A Doll of Your Muse

I can’t write today.  I couldn’t possibly.  I’ve nothing to say.

Still; there’s a meadow and it’s covered in fog up to my knees. 

Meandering through it, hands just on the surface of the mist, I can feel the sharpness sting my palms.

Wincing at the unpleasant sensation I bring them to my face to see tiny droplets of blood run from the open wound, into the mist below.

The fog is no longer docile and begins to whirl around my legs; a veritable tempest about my knees and legs, beating me.

The pain isn’t entirely unpleasant.  More like the dancing of memories of a thousand days gone by; it is intense and it demands attention.

Looking down I see the swirling gale is no longer a mist; though it still resembles one so fast is it moving.

My blood combines with the milieu and I wonder what of my flesh is left; if anything.

The fight or flight comes now and somehow I’m apart from this as well, just an observer of the physical response to the danger presented by recollection.

The mist is coalescing now, mixing with the blood to form a thick blackness that is as solid as stone and immediately recognizable; at least to me.

Next is the call.  A clarion demanding my attention and I fall to my knees.  Up to my neck in the familiar blackness; though it whips around me so fast I can no longer clearly see it.

Wrapping around me, I can feel it, so familiar, so painful and yet so comforting. It’s enigma is that it is a contradiction and it’s contradiction is that it is an enigma.

Burrowing into my skin at the base of my spine I am jolted to my feet as it writhes and wriggles its way inside demanding entry so that it may escape.

I willingly take it in; knowing what comes next and welcoming it.

Arms outstretched, hands balled into fists I open my mouth and it escapes.

Black bile erupts; travelling from all around me, through me and out again.

So violent is this experience that I don’t at first see the sludge for what it is and what shape it takes until;

Standing before me is the most perfect example of human emotion incarnate

The black mixture of mist and blood takes form around her; for it is now clearly a “her” and I can see the descriptive words of every experience I’ve ever had; every memory I never wanted and every feeling I ever did.

Her mummified beauty excites, and spurns me as she raises a finger, dripping with ink, motioning me to come hither.

I can’t write today, I say.

I couldn’t possibly.  I’ve nothing to say.