Tired

Just tell me what you want to hear and I'll do my best to say it. I'm tired of this mind fuck that you're putting me through. Seriously, after years, perspective is diminished. Not sure if you're looking for something held in the eyes of the inexperienced and one who hasn't been though what I have.

Constancies

One girl I feel like I'm holding back from her full potential, while the other I urge to move forward. One I hold on to dear life, while the other I tell her she can find someone better, someone who'll give her all she wants in life and all she deserves.

How can I tell my friend she deserves better when I don't even give better to the one I love?

May cause some insanity

Paranoid. Struggled with my own sanity. Focus man, focus. Half of my life I wanted to please you and keep you happy. I want to love you the way I did in the past. Now you're just broken and I'm the one who dropped you. I'm sorry. I really am.

Men with Women

El Senor and I were coming home from Art Expressions (in McAllen, TX), when the conversation of relationships came up. In short: We're two men - assholes - who are lucky enough to have two women who love them.

Forgetting the past

How exactly do you want me to forget my past? Photos, like relics in a museum, are just the visual effects. Throwing them away merely erases the evidence, not the memories. I've been to places, seen other people. I cannot live my life apologizing for not "letting go," when I have let go. I am with you: You are the victor. The rest are simple memories. You cannot ask me to erase them.

One thing before I go to bed

What is the deciding factor when it comes to love?

Seductions

There wasn't any intimacy with the first one, only random pecks on the lips and cheeks, hugs and holding hands. The second one was a pure imagination. There wasn't a physical connection, nor a metaphysical one; we were together for the sake of being so. The third one was driven by anger; she was angry with the world and I was angry with myself; we hugged, fucked, showed affection in public places - fucked in public places - but in the end there was no passion, just angry thrusts of our bodies. The fourth one was sexual - blow jobs in the back seat of her parents SUV, fucking in pools, hand jobs in theaters - but still we were angry - most of our sexual escapades started with fights of jealous rages, mostly by her; she was a control freak and I was a megalomaniac and these two forces of self-destructive people can never end well; we never attempted to love each other more than those moments when we were wrapped naked underneath sheets. The fifth one was intimacy; I've never made a solid human connection that made me regret my past mistakes; she became my balance; we made love rather than fucked; I settled down, I fought for her; kisses on the nape of her neck, behind her ears, gently and passionately upon her lips; I felt safe with her, I still do.

There are two others. Somewhere in the midst of the fourth one, there was her. We'd speak silently at night as if someone were to walk in our conversations. We never kissed, though we longed to. We never touched, though our bodies ached for it. And just once, and only once, did we whisper I love you when it was too late. The other one was a close friend of mine. Re-education was involved. While her body was familiar, the sense of intimacy upon it was foreign. Like a coward, I shied away, ending what could've been.

Photographs

The only photographer I've ever been with was in high school. We weren't intimate. We didn't read our bodies like poetry. Never touched each other with a deliberate hand. I never asked her if the reason she like being behind a camera was owed to the fact that she wasn't in front of it. I wonder if I could recall what it felt like to kiss her, and how I rejected open mouth kissing because I felt I was bad at it. I also felt that I didn't love her. We never really love our first loves, do we?

Of Remorse & Poetry

My Secret Identity Is

The room is empty,
And the window is open

Charles Simic, The World Doesn't End

Last night, I read a poem by Yeats. It's from the only Yeats book I own. A Poet to His Beloved. The one poem that stands out for me the most is on page 14, "When You Are Old."

Last night, I spoke to a friend about emotions. We're both emotional wrecks. I used to show my emotions better, but lately I've isolated myself. How does one expect a simple apology to undo all the wrongs caused by his hand?

This time last year

This time last year, I wanted to commit suicide. I was pathetic and suicidal. Now I'm just pathetic. I can live with that. I've accepted it. At least I have someone who loves me. It's the little things that make life seem worth it.