Never Written Letter to The First Lover

It saturated everything. It could pull my mouth into breathless giggles or drag the ends nervously down. My mouth became a static arsenal that was always mobile, exposing the emotional convulsions tied further into the face. It made my eyes dilated and fixed, as if they could bear down in a mania or float around water-like as horse’s eyes do when they’re scared shitless. It gave my feet a leaden feeling that pulled nonetheless, sometimes in one finite direction with you standing on the end of it, or in so many paths that I lost violation, stood still, and suffocated. Time, too, became a fixed thing, a thing that serves one purpose; time preparing for you, time spent, and the time of no consequence, without physical meaning but was dead time. Inert time. Time to hash you out into a million pieces, where every action and deed and half look away or through me becomes a secret motivation. I drove myself half mad over your clandestine activities. My intellectual momentum was tried around the things that you could have done, may be doing or have not done at all. And I took it as my cross to premeditate it all. Not so I could defeat you, or soften the blow when you left. But rather, it was a process of making you this colossal being, a sleeping mountain if you will, that was impossible to appease. Cursed to make your life more vital than my own. Being with you was like living in constant violence. Much like love-making it took something each time, ephemeral and invisible but something intrinsic, as if plowing into me was like an immersion into the central core and with nothing growing became more and more fallow with every fuck.



After you left, I learned how to conjure up the most spiritual of assaults. I would look into my latest fixation so deeply, that it was possible to project a million incarnations and offer no outlet for the person that they really were, and only give them the slight conciliation of the person I pretended them to be. And imbibe them time and time again with knowing phases that could not be negated or sought out.



I talked to you today and you said that you were afraid of your own mortality. I responded only with zest and personal appeal that this was how you always were, before you even knew it, as I felt you floating further away on the other side of the telephone wire. I had such a need to possess you in a way that no other woman had. To claim you as my secret soul and mark you as my first. Without your consent or acknowledgement you had become a legend. And in believing this, I convinced others of our divine love. I found lonely and sad ones, ones that knew only love as I had known it, full of the highest suffering and mutilation. Ones that understood the pain of self-flagellation and rejection and the atonement that comes after the longest bought of self-doubt. I made them allies, fellow witch-hunters and conquistadors. After I had moved away, long they stood in judgment of your dalliances with the opposite sex; standing pointing and shouting ‘it is not with her that you are to be with, but with the one that has marked you!’. I understood you so well because no one else could torment me better than you, which made me manipulate and fixate over every little flippancy that could burn more deeply than the swiftest kick. It was with this that made me want to scream ‘just hit me’ so that the sting could be felt in its’ lessoning. And it was this that brought me so close to you and laid the hearth that others have crossed. And all men after have been a commingling of you, and all else are born again in your image, and that image has been blossomed and scarred over so many times that it is impossible to see it in it’s entirety. The men of fables are the ones that I find in my bed.