that's why i'm leaving

what world do i live in?
some samsara
where everything is just a distraction
from how terrible i feel
doing this
juggling all the time
to keep myself from putting my fingers in my heart
and feeling the sludge caught in there?
anxiety
shuffle about
now is the time to get things done
i feel so terrible
feel so unloved.
while laying in the dark
the soft light of the stars lit his beard
capped by the silly mongolian hat
framed by the covers pulled up close to his chin
his beard glowing
nose perfectly round
face a happy grin
impossibly distant.
sure
he only has a few more days with you
and he plays like you mean so much to him
but he still has some random trick over
who’s cheating on his boyfriend
sees me and turns around with no eye-contact
mumbling and stuttering his “hellodomini…”
walking away
ok
i’m at the end of a tunnel
and lock myself in my room
into pain an sorry, like there’s NO tomorrow!
(laughs)
but dinner…
but i make tea
and the conversation is politics
crap
bullshit
i hate this
and blatantly get up and walk away
close the door
and put on “bloody mother fucking asshole”
on repeat
i move things around in piles
paring them down til they are smaller and more defined
til the mumbling has stopped outside
i look: no one upstairs
i walk out on the porch
tip toe through the dark night grass
look in through the window at the empty room
pad quietly onto the deck
and see the naked bodies in their ritual
they quickly fall into the same position we always do
him on the bottom, the other on top
i get frustrated an angry
always that fucking position!
i would sooner choke than do that again and again and again
every night!
it’s ok once every two weeks or more
not even shit and piss and packing and felching
not even
just the same tired old skit
the bodies are undulating
what does that movement mean?
how big is his dick?
what do they feel like?
they do this just to be close?
did it bore robert when i fucked him in the same position every day for hours and hours?
didn’t we try and shift around?
tonight i scanned in pictures of him
i masturbated to the fragments of memories…
how did hate get created out of our desperate attempts at loving?
why isn’t this good enough?
am i turned on?
this is so boring
the night is beautiful
not too cold
not windy tonight
the stars…
i walk back upstairs
Martha is still singing
and i turn the song over to Aphex Twin’s “On”
the jittering beats skip on the rip
i stutter around the room keeping myself busy
so i won’t feel
just like the drugs do for other people
just like jobs do for other people
wanna feel real
want to feel the real life
do i feel like i’m running?
do i feel like i’m doing the splits?
one foot on one continent, the other
the other
the earthquakes pulling me further apart
he once said
“what you going to do when you’re ready to die, Dominic… there won’t be any ice-floats left by then”
no, just the endless isolation of the country i was born in.
well, i’ve got a lot of packing to do
time to change the music
and keep re-arranging the puzzle
til we find something that works