Dear Fickle One,

Enough is enough, you know. Really. Three years of push/pull are enough even for my legendary equanimity and patience.

Yes, you’re cute. Yes, you’re witty, and smart, and can talk my pants off effortlessly. Yes, blah blah blah.

Remember, though… you are hardly unique. I’ve had my pants talked off by cuter, wittier and smarter than you.

Go talk to the allegedly dull one who is fucking you to death, and the apparently insane one who just wants a good spanking, and the obviously flexible one who will stand on her head for you. Then, when you figure out what you really want, come back and tell me all about it.

And I’ll tell you all about those other fish (there are plenty in the sea, I hear, and others to fry).

Bye bye big boy.



September 15, 2009

I try to identify the source of my anxiety in what we have, this incalculable thing that has sprung up between us.

Maybe it is the calibre of his words? Yes, his words are his ammunition, and I am slain.

No. That doesn’t work. Let’s try again.

His words are the sun. I am blinded. I am burnt. I am… nicely tanned and it’s time to turn over?

No, no, no!

This is it, the source of my anguish. His words, his words, they crash into me, they cudgel, they caress me, they craze me, they coerce me. I feel helpless, hapless, hurt. I’m overwhelmed, blissfully so, and I can’t fight back because he has everything, and I have nothing. The words are his, never mine, given but not received. They turn me on, they arouse me, they pull me in, I drown in them, but they are never mine.

Au contraire. My words, mine, les miens, are nothing, become meaningless and empty in response, because of, in reaction to. His. I’m left verbally naked.

And craving more. Words.

Oh, FFS!

November 25, 2007

Dear Dingbat Magnet,

You’ve really done it now, haven’t you? As if the capslocking wasn’t enough, you may have succeeding in turning me completely dingbatty.  I don’t know if that’s what annoys me, or you have annoyed me.  No, it’s probably you.  It is always all about you, isn’t it?

I know, it’s so out of character, isn’t it?  I’m supposed to be all nice and rational and unemotional and mainly placid, with just occasional outbreaks of stroppiness.  And, you know, I generally am.  I defend to the death your right to do anything you like, and I enjoy the honesty.

But quite honestly, I just have to say this:

Fucking hell, that really was a step or ten WAY over the line.

No, wait, that wasn’t quite what I had to say.  I think maybe it was this:


(Yes, that was it)

Very much doubting the yours bit


Battle Fatigue

October 28, 2007

I return from the field with the spoils of war in hand, blood-spattered but head held high. My tight smile stays firmly in place as I march past the waving and cheering ghosts. They, the apparitions, are the reasons for this war. I fought for them, for their pleasure, for their pride, for their ego gratification. They know they need to show their gratitude now. Because they know the truth behind the frozen grin and stiff-gaited step. They know that the blood is not the enemy’s. They know that no prisoners were taken because I am too weak, too tired, too drained to hold the vanquished in restraint.

Behind the bluster, beneath the bravado, my victory is hollow and futile. The white flag was hoisted with a look of pity and compassion in your eye. You gave in more than you gave way. Your words say that I have won, but you have offered no guarantee, no promise besides the immediacy of your surrender. From the moment you handed me your weapon, you knew and I knew that capitulation was one way out, one way of stopping the bloodshed, one way of creating a diversion to make full and utter retreat possible.

I carry on holding the weapon and the flag before me as evidence of my strength and my power. You and I know the truth, though.  We both know that domination is only possible with willing submission. If you are gone, and you are indeed long gone, no ground has been gained. But at least the battle is over.

War Zone

October 25, 2007

We pretend not to be at war. We wear our mufti, and keep our camouflage well hidden at the back of our closets, accessible but invisible. We disguise our weapons with the prettiest of words. We hide our wounds well beneath the tinkling laughter. You’d never know that we’ve left a path of destruction in our wake. The bodies are carefully interred, the blood stains covered with flowers and delicate objets d’art.

The truth is that I am broken, and tired of the fight. I wish for nothing more than to raise my white flag, acknowledge my surrender. The price in casualties has been too high. I no longer have the strength to keep this battle going. The screams are becoming deafening. I am confused, and don’t know which way to run off the field.

How about you? Are you exhausted in your bones the way that I am? Do you dream of peace and tranquility? Are you willing to do anything to make our gentle appearances reality? You can. All you need to do is give up. Admit that I have conquered you. Make me the victor, grant me the spoils. That’s all it will take.

Otherwise, I will continue to ignore the begging of every nerve and impulse in me to be done with this. I can keep this up forever, if I have to. I can sustain this beautiful pretense for as long as it takes. Keep fighting if you wish. It doesn’t matter. Eventually, I will win.

Almost out of sight

August 5, 2007

Don’t look at it directly. You know if you do you can’t have it, don’t you? It’s too big, too hot, too eyeball-searing to look upon, too bright and sparkly and you don’t know if you deserve it. But sometimes it hulks threateningly glacial as an iceberg, ready to shatter your delicate underbelly, and you don’t know what you did to deserve it.

Look at it obliquely, telling it with the indifference of your profile that you know it’s there, and you’ll take it when you’re ready. You’ll reach out a hand and snag it, as if you were always meant to have it, and it’s yours by right.

You can’t have it till you’re bigger – you know that, don’t you? Until you care less, and it matters less, and ideally, until you value it less. And I can’t afford you to do that.

You have to be big enough now, when I need you to be. You need to grab it by the hair and wind your fingers in tight and not let go when it squirms and bites. You have to bend it to your will and remember not to wreck it, and let it know you won’t let it fall. You have to remember you have a right to take what’s freely offered, even if you take it by surprise. Especially if you grab it from behind with a hand around the neck and drop to the ground with it, and crush it with the weight of your body.

Look at it, but not head on. I can’t do this on my own, and it’s no fun if you don’t fight back.

Invisible Battle Lines

August 3, 2007

I keep stumbling over them, but I choose not to see. I would fight your battle… I would even take your side, if you would allow me to… but I am stubborn, too. While I sleep, while I focus elsewhere, you sneak around my house, setting your booby traps, erecting the ankle high barriers that, at any other time, would trip me up. My eyes are open though, so that the choice not to see can be mine. Because not only am I stubborn, I am also afraid. I know what battle looks like. I’ve worn the mufti, carried the weapon that I didn’t really know would kill. Or if I knew, I didn’t believe, didn’t foresee, didn’t understand what winning would look like. I’m more frightened of that than of losing, of being conquered. Being taken prisoner isn’t so bad. I’ve done that, too. Convention is that the captured are treated with tenderness, if condescension.

But please, don’t ask me to recognize those lines, me on one side, you on the other. I don’t want to meet your eyes, and see the battle in them. It’s not really fair, after all. The sides are not even. You’ll win, recognizing my fear, facing me down, cowing me, taking the prize. Or I’ll win, using my experience, my guile, my reluctance to engage, my ability to distract. Either way, take the prize. Please. Holding onto it now would corrupt me, burn me, slay me.

I’ve made my choice. I move back far enough that the lines are invisible to me. I smile my frozen supplication. I look around anxiously for the exit. Perhaps no one will notice me slink away. I surrender without firing a shot.