Somewhere a smooth tongued idealist is lying, working a trade of expensive words and pretty mental pictures, while I am lost in a cold, window rolled down at 3AM world. Illuminated, a sickly dance club pattern, of street lights cut sharply by the cop in the rearview mirror.
And I lie, inelegantly, and painting no pictures and go on home where I want, without much conviction, a distraction of nicotine or alcohol, in lieu of what I'd really rather have. The shape, smell and softness to which I'd rather loose myself. Heedless of all the burdens, cleaving myself to another, instead of aching, tired and angry with the pitiful company of dissatisfaction.
I am tired of the game, of the hunters and hunted and all their many confusions. Of watching those I love breaking themselves on foolish turns of tongue, and misunderstanding. I want nothing of that, the more I watch it play out, unless it takes me by surprise. I have a great taste for the prey, but little taste for the hunting.
I want a kill. Quick, and probably bloody in the end, but ruthless and heedless of greater need beyond my own, and the immediate. I want not worrying about the money, or who its going to shatter in the end, as we drink and laugh and fall, rich with mirth in our base natures and loose to alcohol, glorying in abandonment of anything more serious.
Yet I am a poor killer. My tongue is cursed with honesty, and I cannot find a balance between ruthless desire, and gentility that works in my favor. I am not the liar, the convincer of warm and trustworthy ideals that everyone knows are just a pretense for the dirty, rough crudeness that's really being dealt.
And I am going to bed unsatisfied. Splashed with the blood of hunters, and without the soft, warm, dark haired and olive skinned satisfaction of coming out on top with prey.
I know this will be good for me. In twenty years I will know how wrong I was, how jaded and cynical I really wasn't and everything it cost me to think differently. But tonight? Tonight it is cold, and I have no higher minded intentions, and no desire for stability or anything but self indulgent destruction.
1 comment:
I keep wondering when I'll return victorious, too.
And watching people stroke each other's faces, staring dove-eyed at each other helps nothing. It disgusts me anyways, but now it makes things a bit worse.
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