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"there's a special hell in knowing too well."
Self sacrifice is not a gift - it's self-abandonment.
She had been talking to the robot for hours again. She was still bleeding, but hoping it might be over any day now. She had thought that already - for over a month.
"If only I had been more of a bitch - more of a boundaried person - less vulnerable - more avoidant, it would have worked right? he would have liked me and grown to love me because he respected me right?"
the conundrum of it was that she could only be a cunt to someone who she didn't really care about. When she cared, she was immediately thrust into the danger zone of being a baby screaming "want me!".
She needed to get "not yet" tattooed to her hand to remind her not to give it all away without being earned. She shook with rage at being ... her. and fucking up. again and again.
Knowing intimately and insanely accurately why, how, and what.
None of it helped her. She was an amazing writer (don't laugh), super smart (don't vomit), and vaguely beautiful - and all of it didn't matter.
another brilliant cold achingly beloved man who rejected her because she couldn't take his entitled hand off her vagina in the middle of the night and say "no" and leave the bed. metaphorically.
How very fucking boring.
She mocked Leon for being a wounded lonely cliche and what was she but the exact same thing just drawn a different way. Same cartoon. Same collage. Different docks in the same lake.
And it tired her. She could go to a million years of therapy, read a million books, write billions of words and none of it helped her get past that one trap on the way to the journey - the one she always fell for:
"Do you know you're worthy of love?"
"god that question again. I've been on the other side you know - asking it of others."
"It's a rather important one."
Essentially, the answer was absolutely yes, but there was a huge butt-ress.
"I do indeed, but I'm terrified of being loved because the second I recognize you - I prostrate at the feet and expose my neck to an angry god - always ones who remind me of my brilliant betraying father."
Vomiting your entire vulnerability onto someone and getting mad when they notice is something to notice.
She was aware that the only way to break them both out of the tower was to walk away.
"are you any better than me?"
She was highly irritated that it all hinged on something she couldn't quite put her bloody finger on. She could masturbate all day long. She could dance by herself. She could drink. She could smoke, journal, eat, scream - but she's always going to be stuck on the same starting square.
no one could tell her how to advance. she was left with either retreating or pretending or making it up as she went along.
she had tried all the keys so long - and they never fit the lock.
this latest one.
it
destroyed
her.
He had been the smartest - the freshest really, and she had theoretically been her wisest self - so fucking sure.
could she write her own redemption arc? could she make up another stupid false happy ending where the prince touches her, breaks the spell, says he loves her and voila! happily ever after.
Since she was able to hold a crayon, she had been drawing the same picture: a princess in a field with a hill and a castle in the background.
It all had to matter.
She had to be able to bang her head against the glass one more time and have it break her free. it had to...
but it didn't of course.
she breathed, but she didn't live.
and knowing why - that she fucked up the first step and wanted to blame everyone but herself - was a special fucking hell.
she could end it on that, but she wanted to try and juice it up - offer the reader some sunshine. It's what you're here for, so she tried:
--
the frustrated queen got on her horse and rode into the next town. there was a concert playing there with a band of goats as the musicians. she couldn't wait to take her crown and shoes off and dance like a Dionysian dervish.
then she'd go home, try again, feed the cats, get some coffee, do the Wordle, get naked and warm in front of the fire, and make love to a lover who looks her in the eye.
-
a beginning.
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