09-03-2020, 05:47 AM
Calling the Samaritans is hard—
every each of the double holding tones a judgment:
you don’t deserve this.
Last night Vivien called them and then hung up and
this morning it was me and
I guess that’s all fine since nobody died and
we’ll have each other until we
hate each other (or even thereafter) but
Last night Vivien called them because they
wanted to not exist, because they keep tearing
bits of themselves out to
feed flames that grow more and more—those
INGRATES who dare to be called their family,
who are
held together on one back
(and hate my
precious sib for that).
They had
bawled to me last night (and
it infects me even now/still).
My sweet sib, how have they made you small?
You who are overflowing with and made of UN
RE
LENT
ING
good—who are they to break you, what
the fuck? You: Strong, always on,
and perfect, always
[needing to be]
perfect, whimpering through the phone
hei i think i need help, this time is
different, i don’t know, i’m scared
as I try to find you my least useless words as the
uber darts through empty streets
but not quickly enough.
You said:
hei I’m scared I’m
too broken for lise and they’ll
run away.
I said:
vivien, you are so much
more than your hurt and your
pain.
You tell me that you think this is it
I say:
not yet not yet
wait for me
we’ll fix it [?]
My sib, why are you always trying
to see the best in complete human garbage?
(Admittedly, I’m glad you did [with me].)
Fuck your family [and fuck me].
—(If I were a better friend
I could have better helped.)—
In the background of my mind swims an Echo:
you’d said: “I might need to call for some
help.”
help
help?
Act II:
Last night after they had calmed down, after
scrabble, chilli cashews, and tiktok browsing,
they fell asleep in bed with me. I couldn’t sleep.
It wasn’t until I got home the next morning
in my shower
that I collapsed in tears.
(In truth
I had wanted this
proof that my love is not
performative.)
But they can’t see me like
this, or they’ll never call me
when they need me
again—
so I called the Samaritans:
beep-beep beep-beep.
beep-beep beep-beep.
(I hung up after a minute
because I do not deserve this.)
ASIDE: What kind of sick fetishist am I
to find you beautiful as you cry?
(whimpering through the phone, you had said
[now replaying as an Echo]:
hei I’m scared
please tell lise
i trust you)
The more I see of your hurt the more I
feel the strength that had held all this inside.
Who
The
FUCK did they think they were talking to?
To you? A god? A goddess? A king?
my sib Atlas i wish i could help you bear the
burden of these things, but you‘d
hate to even let me
wash
your
dirty
plates.
(when id asked, youd half-laughed: please dont
and i said: i know i know)
And I say now also: I know,
I know.
My sib, won’t you please be less perfect?
I’d rather a you that is flawed and more selfish
than one that’s faultless
and dead.
Act III: The Bonus Section—here’s the garbage part:
When we had lain together in bed,
you asleep, me restless neck-rolling and
stretching my feet, you shifted slightly over to my side
perhaps used to sleeping alone
(though in my head it was because you had felt
comfort in my warmth).
Technically
I was just making sure I had enough of the blanket
technically
you were over on MY side—
the reality is that I’d
desired it.
I eventually felt the slight pressure of your back
against my leg. Fuck me I feel dirty
that I’d enjoyed it. Even my limp T-deprived phallus
felt arousal for if only a few seconds. I wanted to
move away
but couldn’t
(or just didn’t want to).
(whimpering through the phone, you had said
[now replaying as an Echo]:
hei I’m scared
please
i trust you)
There I lay still even though we weren’t even barely touching.
Get over it, I told myself, go to sleep, think
nothing of it, and almost did, but then you
half awoke and saw me,
half yawned and half smiled (?) at me
and turned back to the other way
but didn’t move away—no,
you in fact snuggled up closer,
rolled slightly
over until my
thigh supported your
weight
until you were
squeezing into me
like a half hug
and I felt
safe?
But from what?
Safe you weren’t going to leave.
Safe that, in that early morning
unconscious and asleep,
you wanting to be close was no mistake.
Safe to not feel guilty to have
(not quite) touched you
when we wake.
(yet there it was, still,
replaying as an Echo:
)
every each of the double holding tones a judgment:
you don’t deserve this.
Last night Vivien called them and then hung up and
this morning it was me and
I guess that’s all fine since nobody died and
we’ll have each other until we
hate each other (or even thereafter) but
Last night Vivien called them because they
wanted to not exist, because they keep tearing
bits of themselves out to
feed flames that grow more and more—those
INGRATES who dare to be called their family,
who are
held together on one back
(and hate my
precious sib for that).
They had
bawled to me last night (and
it infects me even now/still).
My sweet sib, how have they made you small?
You who are overflowing with and made of UN
RE
LENT
ING
good—who are they to break you, what
the fuck? You: Strong, always on,
and perfect, always
[needing to be]
perfect, whimpering through the phone
hei i think i need help, this time is
different, i don’t know, i’m scared
as I try to find you my least useless words as the
uber darts through empty streets
but not quickly enough.
You said:
hei I’m scared I’m
too broken for lise and they’ll
run away.
I said:
vivien, you are so much
more than your hurt and your
pain.
You tell me that you think this is it
I say:
not yet not yet
wait for me
we’ll fix it [?]
My sib, why are you always trying
to see the best in complete human garbage?
(Admittedly, I’m glad you did [with me].)
Fuck your family [and fuck me].
—(If I were a better friend
I could have better helped.)—
In the background of my mind swims an Echo:
you’d said: “I might need to call for some
help.”
help
help?
Act II:
Last night after they had calmed down, after
scrabble, chilli cashews, and tiktok browsing,
they fell asleep in bed with me. I couldn’t sleep.
It wasn’t until I got home the next morning
in my shower
that I collapsed in tears.
(In truth
I had wanted this
proof that my love is not
performative.)
But they can’t see me like
this, or they’ll never call me
when they need me
again—
so I called the Samaritans:
beep-beep beep-beep.
beep-beep beep-beep.
(I hung up after a minute
because I do not deserve this.)
ASIDE: What kind of sick fetishist am I
to find you beautiful as you cry?
(whimpering through the phone, you had said
[now replaying as an Echo]:
hei I’m scared
please tell lise
i trust you)
The more I see of your hurt the more I
feel the strength that had held all this inside.
Who
The
FUCK did they think they were talking to?
To you? A god? A goddess? A king?
my sib Atlas i wish i could help you bear the
burden of these things, but you‘d
hate to even let me
wash
your
dirty
plates.
(when id asked, youd half-laughed: please dont
and i said: i know i know)
And I say now also: I know,
I know.
My sib, won’t you please be less perfect?
I’d rather a you that is flawed and more selfish
than one that’s faultless
and dead.
Act III: The Bonus Section—here’s the garbage part:
When we had lain together in bed,
you asleep, me restless neck-rolling and
stretching my feet, you shifted slightly over to my side
perhaps used to sleeping alone
(though in my head it was because you had felt
comfort in my warmth).
Technically
I was just making sure I had enough of the blanket
technically
you were over on MY side—
the reality is that I’d
desired it.
I eventually felt the slight pressure of your back
against my leg. Fuck me I feel dirty
that I’d enjoyed it. Even my limp T-deprived phallus
felt arousal for if only a few seconds. I wanted to
move away
but couldn’t
(or just didn’t want to).
(whimpering through the phone, you had said
[now replaying as an Echo]:
hei I’m scared
please
i trust you)
There I lay still even though we weren’t even barely touching.
Get over it, I told myself, go to sleep, think
nothing of it, and almost did, but then you
half awoke and saw me,
half yawned and half smiled (?) at me
and turned back to the other way
but didn’t move away—no,
you in fact snuggled up closer,
rolled slightly
over until my
thigh supported your
weight
until you were
squeezing into me
like a half hug
and I felt
safe?
But from what?
Safe you weren’t going to leave.
Safe that, in that early morning
unconscious and asleep,
you wanting to be close was no mistake.
Safe to not feel guilty to have
(not quite) touched you
when we wake.
(yet there it was, still,
replaying as an Echo:
)