A night of sobriety. A night shirtless on your basement couch–your father and your brother upstairs. You said to me you wanted to touch more of me, hold more of me; but you only hand two hands. You held me in silence for so long, fingers stroking my back.

You walked me home when the sky was beginning to blue. You reached over and grabbed my hand. I had planned on kissing you goodnight beneath the dawning sky, but the opened garage door to my house put me on alert and we parted ways quickly.

A few days later, an evening out with our friends. Markus brought along God’s Not Dead and insisted we watch it after dinner. We gathered the alcohol and settled in, me squeezed in tight between you and Markus on that basement couch, Sara wearing your pajama pants–as she often does. It was determined to have been a decent piece of God awful Christian propaganda.

But everyone was intoxicated to some degree. You the most out of all of us. You had your arm around my shoulders, and were often using that hand to grab my breast. You would tuck your face into my neck to laugh or simply murmur something. Your fingers often wound up on my knee, then on the inside of my thigh.

Your brother kept trying to steal your liquor when you refilled your glass. But you’d just pour more in. He looked on as you felt me up on the couch.

You don’t act like this in front of others. We don’t act like this in front of others. Your brother, Markus and especially Sara all pretended not to notice. Or care. As I pretended to be silently startled by your drunken actions. All for them.

But I was tipsy. I liked having you touch me. Especially in front of Sara. Who walked out the door that night with your pajama pants once again.

I liked the fact that I accidentally whispered a comment about us having sex to a ridiculous song louder than I’d intended. And everyone heard it. And that you hadn’t talked back in a whisper.

You walked me half-way home that night. I hadn’t wanted you to walk me home to begin with. You were far too drunk, and you’d been feeling ill for the last hour. But you did anyway. You told me fresh air was what you’d needed.

You had asked if I’d gotten home okay. When I didn’t respond within two minutes, you said you were going to walk all the way back to make sure I’d gotten home. I told you to assume I’d been kidnapped by bunnies.

I spent the next two hours sending you confidently off-color texts and talking you out of sneaking over because I could feel the opportunity wasn’t there. And my mother proved me correct when she sent me a text asking where I was, not having noticed I had come home forty minutes earlier. She was still awake; and my bed squeaks just a bit too much.

I told you I was going to get your pants back. You told me you had given her the dirty pair from the floor. I said I felt conflicted over wanting to wear your clothing and simply lying naked with you in bed. You said you liked that conflict.

I like that Sara saw you unable to keep your hands off me.

Today, you told me I could have ice cream, blankets and sex. Just like the wholesome, innocent cowboy emoji we both like.


Dear Stephen,

I hadn’t said a word to you about that night at the end of April. Almost a month had gone by without my mentioning Her. Without you mentioning Her. But I’d been filled with blazing rage that night and that was gone–all that was left was cold, sour disdain. And it’s harder to be confident you’re in the right when that’s what you’re left with. That and the memory.

You couldn’t figure out what was wrong. I could tell you were approaching me as though you were approaching a minefield. Part of me appreciated that. And another part of me hated it. Because as I was in the heart of my descent back into depression (a problem you’d already been made aware of), you were keeping your distance, asking about me through mutuals.

You finally sent me, Hey. Why are you not talking to me? 
And I did answer you with honesty: Very busy rotting from the inside out.

You said to me, That sounds… excruciating. Can I help you not do that? Can I come over in half an hour or so?, but you didn’t know I’d already left. I’d already moved back home. You offered to come at midnight but with my brother now sleeping in the basement, you sneaking into my room isn’t really an option anymore.

You told me, I just want to talk to you. And you haven’t been talking to me. And that’s very troubling to me. Which wasn’t entirely true, in my opinion. I would say we simply were not talking. I had responded to your texts. Just not at length, or with punctuality. And I told you this.

I asked if you really wanted to help me stop rotting. If you really could. Because I did not know. I told you I did not know. You said you wanted to, why else would you have asked earlier; and I said, It’s what you’re supposed to do.

You told me, No, it’s what I commonly do because I’m concerned about your well-being. I didn’t know how to respond. So I simply responded with Okay. I still felt angry over the end of April; and these messages were creating emotions that conflicted harshly with how I’d already decided I felt towards you.

Why were you showing you cared?

I had to address the issue with Her first. I felt it was moving further and further away, becoming irrelevant, and I would never find closure for it.

You finally messaged me after a week of silence between us, saying I keep dreaming about this conversation taking place, so I’m just gonna say something: I’m not maintaining a silence because I don’t want to talk to you; I’m waiting for you to say something because I don’t know what to say. We made plans to go for a walk around the neighborhood and the conversation didn’t really go in the direction I had imagined it would.

My emotions also weren’t what they were supposed to have been. It was easy to forget for a few moments about why I’d been so angry; and then I’d remember again, and get frustrated because I couldn’t figure out how to work it into the conversation without putting myself at a disadvantage.

But then my anxiety became to much, and I needed to get out of my house. I asked if you wanted to do something during the week and you sent me a screenshot showing that you had the same message typed up. We decided on Wednesday.

I came over around one-thirty, but it wasn’t until the evening that conversation really started to happen. I’d bought a bottle of Jameson on our way home from Olive Garden because I wanted to get a bit drunk. We decided we wanted to watch a shitty movie we could talk and joke through; so I nursed my way through four glasses of Jameson mixed with ginger-ale as we lounged on the couch watching Eclipse. You only had one. I felt confident enough to fall back against your chest, and you held me to you.

I cannot recall how the conversation started after the movie ended. I remember you making a comment about my silence following that night in April. You said there’d been a point where you’d been worried I was pregnant, and that’s why I was being so distant. Which seemed kind of silly to me. You’d probably be the first I’d tell.

Then we started talking about that night in April. The night of the movie. You said you’d felt I was mad at you–which I was. For multiple reasons. I began to bring up what I’d seen between you and Her, but I stopped, I’d said “Nevermind.”

But you, looking like you already knew what I was going to say, said, “No, what? Tell me.” And when I didn’t answer you right away, you asked, “Is it about the fact that I still hang out with Her?”

And I told you no, not at all. That didn’t matter to me, although I did ask you later what you guys did because I was genuinely curious–there doesn’t seem to be much common ground there. I said it was about Her, though. I told you I felt you’d hurt me on purpose that night with your flirting with Her, because you’d been mad at me. I told you if you wanted to fuck Her, that’s fine, fuck Her; but then end things with me.

I had started to go on, just more rambling, but you were shaking your head. “I don’t want to fuck Her.” So calm, and so sure.

The alcohol had me rambling on more about how it’s fine if you wanna fuck Her, just don’t do it when you’re fucking me because we’d just had that discussion, ya know? And you nodded and said, “I know. But I don’t want to fuck Her.”

You’d seemed confused when I’d said you’d been flirting with Her. You said you weren’t sure why she was there in the first place, since Markus had invited Her but he was giving all of his attention to a different girl.

I explained the group photos I’d seen of the two of you on Facebook, dressed in formal wear. Because she’d been tagged in them, of course. They hadn’t bothered me at the time; but stacked up with Her relationship status change and the flirting, had started to when I remembered them that night.

And you said something that I still find kind of… interesting. You said you thought about calling me that night the photos were taken. Because you knew I’d see them and you didn’t want me getting worried. I asked you what it had been for, and you told me Her swing-dancing club. I asked why you hadn’t mentioned it, and you said it had been a spur of the moment thing that night, you hadn’t even been going originally.

It could’ve simply been my tipsy state. Maybe you were lying. But it didn’t feel like it. Your words sounded genuine.

Continue reading

last night i took a break from studying during the middle of the night. went to reddit, as i often do, and stumbled across a murder confession.

guy made a long and detailed post about “his side” of why he had stabbed his girlfriend to death in her apartment. now he’s on the run.

not exactly what i was expecting when i decided to take a break. though what else should i have expected from a post titled “wanted for kitchener murder my side”?

i think what frustrated me most though was that i became distracted by this whole concept of people confessing to crimes on the internet and other people–like me–experiencing it in “real time,” if you will. you’re like, some type of virtual bystander or something. or maybe not so much bystander in this case because there wasn’t anything i could do about it but it was still weird. i still felt slightly more involved than i normally would when reading about things like this.

but i ended up wasting quite a bit of time researching other crimes that people had posted onto the net. especially 4chan. some of those people could probably be considered actual bystanders. what a fucking train-wreck.

but it’s weird. that “real time” effect. even though it’s only the internet, and you’re probably quite a distance away from someone who’s–in the cases i was looking at–killing people, you’re still in contact with them. it’s like, this ambiguous and creepy type of closeness.

english grammar is very boring compared to corresponding with a killer.

i’m falling and i’m falling so so fast. i can’t stop.

i didn’t eat today. i didn’t eat yesterday. i took a shower that was two and a half hours long. it’s 4:38 and i know i won’t be sleeping. no, not until this afternoon.

i want to go in and talk to my english lit professor but i can’t stand to face him without my paper finished. he wants to know what’s been up with me but i cannot handle being a disappointment. i just can’t. it makes my hands shake, and my legs refuse to move. my body will not leave this room.

i didn’t go to work today. my phone remained off until 19:30.

stephen texted me twice around 13:00, and once shortly before i turned it on. he asked how handing in my two-weeks had gone. he also sent an image that, under normal circumstances, would’ve been amusing: a “nude” figure of a woman lying on a beach made out of rocks, and the text said “rock bottom.”

but it just made me sad because i’m sliding towards rock bottom and there’s no friction under my feet.

and because he knows i’m angry–the way i left the other night and his messages lends to that–but he doesn’t want to deal with it. he wants to force me past my anger with internet memes and stupid chitchat. up until a few days ago, he’d worked there too; and he’d asked me how one would go about handing in their two-weeks. he knows you just put it into HR’s mailbox. the answer to that question is “it did.”

i didn’t answer him. i didn’t feel like talking to him. i didn’t feel like talking to anyone today.

i realized that i go entire days without talking to anyone. or the only interactions i have are the brief ones occasionally pulled out of me during classes. i wonder if this is something that happens to others? or is it another warning sign. i’m not sure. i’ve never been an extrovert anyway.

but i think it’s becoming painful.

i’m tired and i want to sleep. but my eyes just won’t close. my mind won’t rest. and i have to do work and i have to go to class but i’m just to tired i just want to sleep.

please just let me sleep. it hurts so much. but i can’t seem to cry so nothing ever gets better. so please, at least give me sleep. i have no appetite, i have no socialization, i have no motivation–even for the things i enjoy–just let me keep the ability to sleep. it’s the only thing i still had.

maybe if i get drunk i’ll feel better.

still haven’t cut myself yet. (:

fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you

if you’re going to have this with me, then it’s going to be with me. not with her, or her, or her, or her; no, it’s going to be with me and no one beyond.

this arrangement operates according to the same rules that relationships do, you know this. this isn’t news to you. don’t act like you aren’t aware of this. you cannot have both me and her.

you can have me. or you can have her.

but please. let’s not play nice and toss around nice words. i don’t have the patience. she isn’t anything compared to me. she never has been. you know this too.

in the past you’ve told me my jealousy has been silly but clearly clearly clearly either i, or perhaps the both of us, have been mistaken. are you under an impression that regardless of you leaning in close to her in the dark, whispering things into her ear, touching her hand at you gaze so tenderly at her, so long as you’ve given me words before, your actions will not empty them of meaning?

don’t tell me it was only you being silly.

that look on your face, a look that i’m sure was the cause of her constant turning around and giggling stupidly at whatever the fuck you were saying, i know that look intimately. it was a look that lead to our intimacy. intimacy that broke rules. on both sides, eventually.

she broke the rules with you, with your best friend. i broke the rules with christian, with you. you broke the rules with amanda, with me. so now you must bend the rules with me, with her?

fuck you.

you told me the other week that you fear my jealousy. i told you it wouldn’t be a problem as long as you told me before hand and this wasn’t still going on. do you ever listen to a fucking word that comes from my lips? or are you only concerned with the look of them and what the can do for your cock?

don’t be stupid. you know who stands tall when it comes to comparisons. she has nothing to offer you. you know she’s cardboard. and you know i sparkle. there’s a reason you’ve come back to me so many times; either after every failed or during every failing relationship you’ve had with the pieces of cardboard.

i fascinate you.

that will never change.

because i am fascinating.

fuck you.


i haven’t slept in two days. finally ate some food after having not eaten in the last three. moods have been cycling so fast that i’m left dizzy. makes me want to drink. or take opiates. i’m becoming afraid of being left alone with my thoughts again. feel like self-destructing again. keep looking at my wrists and wanting to feel pain again.

maybe living alone was dangerous.

i’m doing it again next year.

no other way.

no more mood stabilizers. i’m skipping them. only anti-depressants. i miss the giddy high too much. i need the mania. i need it right now. i have nothing else. i have to quit work. gonna hand in my two weeks tomorrow. it’s written out already. i’m done. gotta get out of there. i’m falling apart.

right now, i don’t want to see him ever again.

i wish i could hang onto that feeling. because i know it’s only going to disappear.

stop. i just need it all to stop.


It was only the two of us in the cities on Saturday. Elizabeth had made other plans, was going to Wisconsin. I’d been sad but then I realized I’d have you to myself and you’d have me to yourself. We’d be alone in our adventure and I like that.

We sat on the steps outside of the Capitol building and I leaned on your thigh. There were so many people, so many signs, so much sunlight and so much heat. The man behind us was talking about how it made him feel to see so many young marching. It’s our future. We should be marching.

We rode on the light rail, sitting close side-by-side and you put your arm around me. I put my head on your shoulder. We wouldn’t have been able to do this with the others along. I’ve been dreaming of spiders. Why is that? I never asked you.

We went to the bondage shop. A man gave us two plastic cards. One about an upcoming fetish party. The other held dates and times for bondage lessons. We both made a comment about having missed the Rope 101 class. I would’ve liked that.  We looked and discussed items for an hour. In the middle of the store, in front of four others, you got onto your knee and told me to spread my legs. You were curious about the length of the spreader-bar. You wanted to see it “in use.” I did as you said and we left the store with it.

I read drafts from my manuscript to you on the way back. You were tired and driving was difficult. I wanted to keep you awake. I know you like hearing about our relationship. We talked about our memories from that first night together. It’s interesting what we both remember. There are a lot of small moments I’ve forgotten. That’s why I like talking about it.

You remind me. And I remind you.

But I cannot wait for summer. I always write prettier words during the summer. Let’s get drunk and touch each other outside in the dark.

– Anne