Trust me, I don’t get it either. Whatever this is. It sucks. I want him to be something he isn’t. It’s asking a lot of him. But things used to be different. Didn’t they? He’d be sweet and I’d be…well, okay, a total bitch, but that’s besides the point. I don’t know I don’t know I don’t. I think I want too much from him and it’s…not good.
He’s asleep. I keep trying to get him to wake up and stay awake. It feels lacking, the way he just passes out after a while, the way he’s limp and bats my hands and head away when I try to touch him. He compared sleeping to being cryogenically frozen. Why would you want to be cryogenically frozen if all the time I have with you is four more days, four more days that you might have work, four more days and then I have work. It makes me feel like he doesn’t appreciate the time we have together, a hypothesis he will completely reject. He loves me. But, he sleeps when we can be doing something else.
I just want to be cuddled with, possibly loved more openly than just saying “I love you.” every once in a while when I accuse him of not. Maybe I’m just a needy bitch who demands too much from him. I probably am. I want my relationship to be the kind that’s practically lifted the pages of some cheesy romance novel. I want him to be something he’s not. That’s it. That’s it. I don’t know what it is, but he was different before. He cared. I guess? Now, he really just farts, picks his nose, roll over and sleep some more. Is it sad? That my day with him can be characterized as such? Sleeping, fucking, farting. The farts, aside from the fact that they are smelly as shit, just bothers me. He does it all the time. Regardless of situation or context and just enters into this fit of giggles every time he does it. It’s not hilarious, because I have to smell it and he has no problem with the smell. It’s not enjoyable. It’s crass and annoying, quite frankly. When I’m looking for a bit of intimacy, I get immaturity. And when I comment on his farts, his lack of, I don’t know, intimacy for a lack of better words, he retracts, like a turtle or some sort of strange snail that curls up when provoked and either starts hurting himself or crawling away, sleeping on the floor or some form of self pity or rejection or hurt. IT’S ABOUT FUCKING FARTS. He gets upset about the simplest things. How am I NOT supposed to be slightly UPSET when he FARTS everywhere, all the time. And it smells like SHIT. Honest to god, it smells like SHIT. My room, my sheets, my bed. He just has to. He just has to. It’s not like it’s even a big problem. Somehow, my discontent with this relationship is manifesting itself in the form of flatulence. I fart, sure. We all fart. Or, there’d be something wrong with our digestive system. But, why, why, why….
I don’t feel loved. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I feel incredibly loved, incredibly close to him. But, other times (like now) I feel like there’s a wall and it’s stopping me from feeling what I want to feel and from getting what I want to get.
I want him to touch my face, stroke my cheeks and kiss me passionately, in the darkness of my bedroom. I want him to make love to me slowly, sensitively. I want to feel him, feel him alive and close and with me. Someday….Maybe?
Right now, he’s sleeping next to me, snoring gently, lying on my stuffed toys. I don’t know. The more I write, the more I love him, the more I remember why I love him. He’s so vulnerable and exposed. There’s a strange sadness in his face that makes me love him. I like it when he’s sad. I like the face he makes.
I haven’t written anything in a long time. There hasn’t been turmoil in my life? No. I’ve just been telling him everything. And stuff like this I can’t tell him. No. It’s about him. You don’t complain to the offender. He’s not really offending anything either. Mood swings? Or, sudden realizations? When he doesn’t reach for me when I turn away, my heart hurts. When he leaves me, my heart hurts. Yet, I’m not satisfied when he’s around. The trouble with me, the trouble with women. We want more when there isn’t more to be had.
I can’t sleep, but he’s always sleeping. I love the night. I love staying up and listening to cars pass by on the street. I love watching amber boxes of light trace arcs across my bedroom ceiling. I love the melancholic glow of my computer monitor, pale, blue and impersonal, fall on my fingers, my sleeves, my desk. I love how alien and alone the world feels at night, how the dark holds a mystery so deep and strong, thick like a sweet, intoxicating nectar. How I am drawn to all this. How he sleeps through all of this. All of the beauty that I hold so deep, so close.
I’m not a morning person. On the bright side, he’s crushing my stuffed teddy with his head. I have to rectify this. Hold on. It’s been fixed. The bear has been rescued. I think…everything will be alright. Sometimes, I just get sad. Am I pregnant? Am I?!