by katyt » Fri Oct 25, 2024 3:30 am
There was a time when seeing something beautiful would stir up desire in me—to have it, to find a way to possess it, or even to give it to someone I cared for. When I saw beautiful people, I used to think they were more powerful, more special, more... everything than I could ever be.
Now, when I see beautiful things, all I see is waste. Time slipping away. Days blending into nothingness. Pictures that hold no meaning, faces that no longer quicken my heartbeat. When I look at beautiful people now, I pity them. The higher they climb, the further they fall. The more beauty they have, the more disappointment they will feel when that last glimmer fades from their cheeks and the light dies from their eyes. When their lovers gaze upon them with indifference, when each kiss becomes tasteless and each touch scorches, and when every word feels like a knife to the heart and a sickness to the gut.
When I see the elderly walking past, I feel a connection. Though fifty years my senior, I understand them. I know what they've been through. But when I see the young, I feel adrift. How is it possible that anyone, anywhere, can laugh so freely? How can they care so deeply? Their happiness feels alien to me now, like something I’ve only read about or seen in a movie. It’s not part of my own experience. I never loved like that. I was never held like that. I never truly felt that way.
I would give almost anything to feel the first push under my bones. Almost anything to hear him whisper "honeypie", or "dollface", or the one who called me "sugar", and especially the one who simply said my name as if it were more holy than God. When I see the young ones, with the sweat from the plastic cups of their iced lattes dripping onto their crossed tanned legs, I feel him pushing my thong down my hips. I feel the elastic peeling down my ass crack, I feel the fabric slide down my knees and I step out. Naked. Ready. And I always push it away, bite my lips, and keep walking.
I ache in my very soul to hear the sounds of male laughter, to feel a drunken finger push my hair out of my face, then hook my chin and pull me in. The one who called me Sugar used to wait until he was nearly too drunk to stand, then push me against the bathroom sink and have me. His curly hair in my shoulder, biting my breast. I don't even remember most of it, just having a throat too sore to protest when my best friend would pull me from the mattress on the floor. She'd help me on with my pants and cardigan, shove me into her car, and never say a word. Her shame was equal to mine, and we kept each other's secrets. Such friendship is so rare, it may as well be considered impossible to find. But naturally even she disappeared from my life just as easily as the rest, especially when the love of my life told me he fantasized about her. I could never see her the same way as before, after picturing him entering her, even if it was his sick daydream.
Sometimes I pick up the box, the one we all have somewhere hidden in our homes or garages or storage units. The one with the dried flowers, cards, letters, mixed tapes, stuffed animals, dirty photos, anything he or she might have left behind. I have letters that I read. Text and email transcripts. Some horrible poetry. I bring this box out when I need to cry and can't, but now it doesn't work for me anymore. I read the letters, wonder if their wives have ever seen some of the shit I've written, and try like hell to cry or feel or anything. And I can't. I picture the sex. I picture the cocks. And I can't feel. I can't cry. Not until I remember that I wasn't good enough for a single one, and every one of them left me. And this time won't be any different. All the letters, all the texts, all the emails, all the clothes and stuffed animals and ticket stubs and CDs... I'll just have more of them when it's finally over.
When I see a pretty young girl with sad eyes, I want to slap her in the face. She's beautiful. She can do anything. She has hope. It's too late for me. It's too late for most of us. But this pretty young girl, she can still make it. And yet, I know she has so far left to fall. So much more hurt left to feel, before it's all over. But since she doesn't know that, I let her hope. The way others let me hope. Let it be my turn to let you down, pretty girl.
There was a time when seeing something beautiful would stir up desire in me—to have it, to find a way to possess it, or even to give it to someone I cared for. When I saw beautiful people, I used to think they were more powerful, more special, more... everything than I could ever be.
Now, when I see beautiful things, all I see is waste. Time slipping away. Days blending into nothingness. Pictures that hold no meaning, faces that no longer quicken my heartbeat. When I look at beautiful people now, I pity them. The higher they climb, the further they fall. The more beauty they have, the more disappointment they will feel when that last glimmer fades from their cheeks and the light dies from their eyes. When their lovers gaze upon them with indifference, when each kiss becomes tasteless and each touch scorches, and when every word feels like a knife to the heart and a sickness to the gut.
When I see the elderly walking past, I feel a connection. Though fifty years my senior, I understand them. I know what they've been through. But when I see the young, I feel adrift. How is it possible that anyone, anywhere, can laugh so freely? How can they care so deeply? Their happiness feels alien to me now, like something I’ve only read about or seen in a movie. It’s not part of my own experience. I never loved like that. I was never held like that. I never truly felt that way.
I would give almost anything to feel the first push under my bones. Almost anything to hear him whisper "honeypie", or "dollface", or the one who called me "sugar", and especially the one who simply said my name as if it were more holy than God. When I see the young ones, with the sweat from the plastic cups of their iced lattes dripping onto their crossed tanned legs, I feel him pushing my thong down my hips. I feel the elastic peeling down my ass crack, I feel the fabric slide down my knees and I step out. Naked. Ready. And I always push it away, bite my lips, and keep walking.
I ache in my very soul to hear the sounds of male laughter, to feel a drunken finger push my hair out of my face, then hook my chin and pull me in. The one who called me Sugar used to wait until he was nearly too drunk to stand, then push me against the bathroom sink and have me. His curly hair in my shoulder, biting my breast. I don't even remember most of it, just having a throat too sore to protest when my best friend would pull me from the mattress on the floor. She'd help me on with my pants and cardigan, shove me into her car, and never say a word. Her shame was equal to mine, and we kept each other's secrets. Such friendship is so rare, it may as well be considered impossible to find. But naturally even she disappeared from my life just as easily as the rest, especially when the love of my life told me he fantasized about her. I could never see her the same way as before, after picturing him entering her, even if it was his sick daydream.
Sometimes I pick up the box, the one we all have somewhere hidden in our homes or garages or storage units. The one with the dried flowers, cards, letters, mixed tapes, stuffed animals, dirty photos, anything he or she might have left behind. I have letters that I read. Text and email transcripts. Some horrible poetry. I bring this box out when I need to cry and can't, but now it doesn't work for me anymore. I read the letters, wonder if their wives have ever seen some of the shit I've written, and try like hell to cry or feel or anything. And I can't. I picture the sex. I picture the cocks. And I can't feel. I can't cry. Not until I remember that I wasn't good enough for a single one, and every one of them left me. And this time won't be any different. All the letters, all the texts, all the emails, all the clothes and stuffed animals and ticket stubs and CDs... I'll just have more of them when it's finally over.
When I see a pretty young girl with sad eyes, I want to slap her in the face. She's beautiful. She can do anything. She has hope. It's too late for me. It's too late for most of us. But this pretty young girl, she can still make it. And yet, I know she has so far left to fall. So much more hurt left to feel, before it's all over. But since she doesn't know that, I let her hope. The way others let me hope. Let it be my turn to let you down, pretty girl.