sick

Please, Don't Say

Please, don't say that it's me you miss.
Words such as these can only sting
My tortured soul and bring
Me to the brink of the dark abyss.
Please, don't say that it's me you need;
These words my battered heart can't take.
Your professed longing only makes
Its raw and festering injuries bleed.
Please, don't say that it's me you love.
These words from you I can't believe
Without feeling cruel, endless grief
Crushing my chest like a weight from above.
No! I never meant what I said before!
I beg for you to say these things, and more.


Why am I so damned angry? All right; I've always had some depression, and been a bit pissed off about things. But lately it's just ridiculous. I want to scream obscenities at the top of my lungs. I want to destroy. But I don't. To all appearances I'm completely calm. I know shutting these things inside is not good, but neither is letting them out in an explosion of futile rage. It's a no-win situation.

And things like this just piss me off more:

Love Again
by Philip Larkin

Love again: wanking at ten past three
(Surely he's taken her home by now?),
The bedroom hot as a bakery,
The drink gone dead, without showing how
To meet tomorrow, and afterwards,
And the usual pain, like dysentery.

Someone else feeling her breasts and cunt,
Someone else drowned in that lash-wide stare,
And me supposed to be ignorant,
Or find it funny, or not to care,
Even ... but why put it into words?
Isolate rather this element

That spreads through other lives like a tree
And sways them on in a sort of sense
And say why it never worked for me.
Something to do with violence
A long way back, and wrong rewards,
And arrogant eternity.



_______

Shit! Why didn't someone tell me the new season of The OC started last week? I missed an episode!

At least I can still kill my brain with television. It's one of the few things that works.