Preteen girls on the playground parked on the curb, plucking their dying daisies,

"Does he love me? Does he not?".

It's unfair- let them be me! I sit on the curb of thirteen- sleepless,

"Am I? Aren't I? I can't be!"

My sweat and tears are dipped in misery, "Do I like her? Do I not?".

If god's there why'd he do this to me, "Why me! Why me!"

The 'normal' girls were content; I was dragged unwillingly.

Is my love not worth these daisies?

So now, when I tell you,

"I am."

How dare you tell me,

"You can't."?

I identity with the velveteen rabbit.

In a way, like him I want to be “real”.

In spiritual terms you can say ascend.

I long for the familiar feeling of my Mother and Grandmother, that special love from family.

The velveteen rabbit also longed for that kinship. He admired the freedom the real bunnies had outside, not being confined to just the playroom. The bunny felt wonderful when he was picked by the boy to be his favorite toy.

I too want to feel special and safe and loved. Like the velveteen rabbit, I have come to a hard realization.

That this world is cruel and I am expendable at the whim of the government, or whatever ruling class there is and I can be thrown away just like he was.

This is why I don’t want to be here anymore, life without meaning has no joy and without joy what is the point?

Look, you can’t make someone love you no matter how hard you try and who wants someone they forced into love or worse a cheater?

The best way to get over someone is to realize if it was meant to be you would be together, but you’re not, so that means something better is coming for you.

Does that make your heart hurt less? No because you have attachment, so let it go. Easy to say but look to the future, brighter days are coming.

the phone rang at 03:08

unknown number

Well, the bleeding wound

on his forehead prevented him

from sleeping anyway

He picked up

"Yeah?"

"Hey," a girl's voice said. "Are

you the guy who

has a thing for crazy girls fresh out

of the psych ward?"

"What?"

"Am I speaking to the guy who's

very much into dating

sexy girls with mental issues that

other guys refer to as red flags?"

"Who is this?" he asked

"Oh no, this is not

about me. I just wanted to

introduce you to my sister. I think she

fits the bill quite perfectly

with you. What do you say?"

He sighed. "Tell her I'll call back

once my current girlfriend

breaks up with me. I hope she's patient. It'll

take a good couple of hours. Bye."

He hung up

***

INSTAGRAM:

https://www.instagram.com/bogdan_1_dragos/

You already said it, It's just out of order. You move on with your life, and the getting over someone part comes later.

It's frustrating to try to force it to heal faster than it's going to and I encourage you not to rush into something faster than you should. I've been on the receiving end of that. It's not fun dating someone that's mentally dating their ex.

When the tears stop the hurt will still be there, but I'd invite you to rediscover who you were when you were single or if it's been some time. Find out who you are as an individual. Are you into the working out, writing, gaming, sports, partying, etc? You've got nothing, but time now. Fill it with something.

Voids are supposed to be filled.

Give yourself time, but make sure you're filling that time with things you enjoy. There's no deadline for your next relationship.

Narcissists love couples’ counseling. Oh, God, how they love it. It’s a GAME to them. They LOVE it. Narcissists play marriage counselors like fiddles. They dance circles around them, flick them in the backs of their heads without them even knowing, laugh at them, dance hellish jigs of mockery on their shoulders and tops of their skulls; inwardly, secretly, covertly laughing their asses off in mockery of just about all marriage counselors on earth.

Seated next to their long-suffering and earnestly-trying-to-make-things-work codependent every-spouse, what goes through the head of a narcissist while she or he looks right into the face of the also-earnest marriage counselor is something like this: “You think I’m here to make things BETTER between myself and this piss-ant SLAVE I’ve lassoed? Ha-HAA! Not a chance! But this is WONDERFUL ATTENTION I’m getting from the BOTH of you along the way! I’m LOVING this! How long can we keep this going?? This is DELICIOUS ATTENTION!!”

And I’m sorry to report, much to the chagrin of the modern radical feminists out there, that nowadays there is TREMENDOUS advantage to being a FEMALE narcissist. It’s not just me saying that—during my dark abyss of cumulative CPTSD, when the narc had very nearly driven me to death—but when I hit rock bottom and—praise to God—bounced and began my recovery from codependency—I paid some of the most well-spent money I’ve ever spent to a female narcissistic-abuse-recovery life coach, and even though “her narc” had been a demon-possessed male, she too stated her belief that nowadays, in our current political climate, female narcs can get away with forms of abuse that, had a male narc did that, then society would have been on to them.

Going to couples’ counseling with that demon-possessed narcissistic witch that had initially parasitized me was far worse than doing no counseling at all. Far worse. For the witch mirrored and shmoozed every single counselor from the get-go: She charmed them with cajoleries and by demonically, hypnotically mirroring their own words and body language back on them. The demon inhabiting “my narc” could “get on the good side” of just about anybody in seconds, unless it was somebody who was very well versed in the facts of narcissistic personality disorder and very probably demonic possession, as well, and it turns out that most marriage counselors THINK that they know a thing or two about NPD, because they’ve probably been introduced to it for a couple or three measly weeks while getting their psych degree, but as probably ALL narcissistic-abuse survivors know: Unless you have lived it yourself, you don’t know jack shit about NPD abuse.

But the thing that makes it so advantageous to be a FEMALE narc in today’s modern, crumbling, gynocentric society is that BOTH idiot sides of the political spectrum will rush to the defense of a female who claims to be a victim nowadays—BOTH—and narcs, as all survivors of narc abuse know—are the undisputed MASTERS at playing the victim. And so today, any therapist who is inherently “left-leaning” will jump to the defense of a female narc who is feigning victimhood by claiming that “Oh, whoa is me: He’s oppressing me!”; and any therapist who is “right-leaning” will jump to the defense of a female narc who is feigning victimhood by claiming that “Oh, whoa is me: I’m a poor damsel in distress!”

The narc could read these fools in an instant, whichever side of the political spectrum upon which they fell, by asking a few strategic, probing questions (which is how she initially fooled this fool before you now), then she would simply put on an act, becoming that likeminded left-leaning or right-leaning sympathetic, simpatico person, and she would find out the likes and values of that particular counselor and she would adopt them for her own, and she would then also begin mimicking the actual physical mannerisms of each counselor from across his or her desk, and it was just like that hypnotic python hypnotizing Mowgli in THE JUNGLE BOOK. Except the one being squeezed was me.

Squeezed and triangulated: Narcs are also virtuosos at triangulating people: getting others to line up with the narc, to agree with them, and to team up with the narc against their isolated-and-psych-abused victim, the codependent primary supply of any narc.

She did this to me each and every time we ever went to marriage counseling.

And stupid me: I was so damnably codependent, I was so housebroken, and just BROKEN by the demon in the fleshly hull of that parasitized woman’s body, that I was practically crying out to counselors to get it into that witch’s head: that if this marriage was going to WORK, then I actually needed some kind of nano-particularate of INTIMACY and affection from her (it). I choke and cough now as I type that; I am horrified and ashamed; I was actually wanting to get closer to a demon!

And the counselor, whichever counselor, would always have some new gimmick, some new trick up his or her sleeve, some new couples’ game that we should play that next week that would act as a magical catalyst to beget intimacy between the narc and myself. And the narc would always play along and feign earnestness (and inwardly laugh her ass off and smirk her narcissistic smirk) and then, later that week, when I tried to play the stupid game and prayerfully initiate some kind of intimacy with the narc, then the narc would vanish, would disappear, would suddenly have have something super-compelling that she just had to do in the other room, and if I went to help her in the other room then her sudden all-compelling thing to do had shifted to another room, and another room, and another house, or better still, another community do-gooder activity in the community (my ex-wife was a lousy, rotten COMMUNAL narc). And when we’d meet again the next weekend and the counselor would say, “How did it go, you two?” and I would try to plead for help, try to explain that she refused to play the magical intimacy-initiating game, that she had REFUSED to play, then the counselor would ask for an explanation from the narc, and the narc would….wait for it….vomit out the WORD SALAD.

Every narcissistic-abuse survivor knows about the Word Salad. Word Salad is a bit like when a squid shits out INK to confuse a predatory assailant, to obstruct the assailant’s vision, and thereby to give the squid time to get away. A Word-Salad “answer” is when you ask a narcissist a question that might put the narcissist on the spot, and the narcissist gives an answer that has many, many words in it, but strangely, bafflingly, there is no actual answer in it. It’s squid’s ink. Like everything else a narcissist does, giving a Word-Salad answer to an earnest, probing, uncomfortable question requires a great deal of demonic subtlety. A Word-Salad answer is ultimately a non-sequiter, but it needs to skirt close enough to the topic of the question so as to not be a complete non-sequiter, and it must consist of many, many more words than necessary in order to wear down the listener who posed the question, as well as to confuse him or her and thereby make them go away or make them change the subject.

And so the narc would shit the Word-Salad answer out of her subtle mouth, and it would work its subtle, demonic magic upon the inquiring counselor: It would stun and confuse him or her and would get them to drop the subject and to move on to something else that didn’t suddenly render them so confused.

And in this way I never had any intimacy or affection from my wife in all those nightmarish years of NPD marital abuse. Which is ultimately a blessing, because once, when I later saw her eyes go all black again—but for a full eight or nine seconds THAT time—and when I SAW the fucking demon manifest in her face as well THAT time, then yeah, I’m pretty much glad I did not kiss that fucking creature too much or too often after the initial, fleeting narcissistic-lovebombing phase was over.

Part 2

And suddenly, I find myself drawn to that feeling of uncorrupted, soothing energy that cleanses away all the pain - to the moment in the basement when I barely made it out alive - and the closeness, the warmth of his body and his lips on mine that seemed to fill me with energy, that knew of no torture, no demons, no ache. Purification. It was the only time in my life I ever felt whole, countless invisible pieces shifting and fitting themselves into place as if my body had been filled to the brim with liquid diamonds exploding with light that illuminated me in silver. And unexpectedly, I had become the moon on the clearest night of the year, devouring the darkness so deeply that it no longer had access to me. Something cracks, shifts, and twists inside of me, and without warning, I no longer exist as I was - all that I am, and all I have become is a need, a hunger. The only thought living in my vacant walls is to make the anguish go away, nothing else; sense and reason becoming a foreign concept to the feverish mind.

Find your release, take it.

You deserve it.

No one will stop you.

I look at Charlie without seeing him, only craving, needing, wanting - not fully recognizing the person before me but itching to get to the energy I knew hid under the warm touch, under the skin that was so inviting. I lean forward and grab onto his shoulders, nails unhurriedly clawing down his arms, enjoying the sound of the woolen fabric under my fingers, slightly defying my actions. Everything in me is desperate, loud, and consuming, yet what grows in me takes its time - like a lazy beast slowly surrounding its prey, relishing in the agony of hunger just before it gets satisfied. I feel tension and resistance in his body that only stirs me with more eagerness. I grab onto him tighter, my hands shifting to his lower back and under the material of his sweater, longing for bare skin and heated muscles to dive into. My structure wants to experience all of him, atoms shifting and dancing, humming for the light that would reassemble my skin, molding itself once again into liquified silver until my hands would become a cluster of crescent moons and dying stars. He was the sun I needed to consume to stay alive, to function.

I hear his voice, a rushed, worried whisper between my growing chaos, a plead trapped in only one word. I think he says my name, but then I forget what a name is, what it implies. All I want is him and nothing else.

Let me. Please. It hurts, it hurts so much.

That must be my voice, yet I don't recognize it. But a part of me that is still aware understands that it's my last courtesy for him on the sane ground. I feel hesitation from him blending with a hunger that is not just my own, and then sense searching hands move to my thighs, and it's all the permission I need. My body lifts higher, lips finding his instinctively, teeth grazing against them and tasting the familiar curve and warmth. His fingers sink in deeper into my legs, tugging me closer. And despite the fever, sorrow, and all the pain that's eating me alive, shifting me into something unpredictable, the corners of my lips lift into a slow grin, a feeling of unexpected joy flaring through my chest before I even feel his breath in mine. I tear off my sweater with urgency, annoyed by the fabric that seems to sting my skin as if it just got burned in a fire, the sofa's cushions scraping against me and causing me to growl, agitation hitting me until my focus returns to him; burning a different kind of flames in my insides - I kiss him harder with passion both limitless and constantly expanding, something echoing in the pit of my stomach, snarling expectantly with feelings so turbulent that I could never fully express.

No part of her wants to be away from him.

Everything in the room spills out in crimson and orange hues, the matter around them losing its shape and meaning, energy vibrating and crackling, heightened into something new, thrilling - causing time to slow down and become almost touchable, defined as if a painting of flames, frozen yet blazing. Her fingertips seem to itch even more, making the nails dig in harder as if she couldn't get deep enough under his skin, the soul, his deepest essence - needing to be connected to him as strong and as close as possible, constantly feeling like she's not close enough. It's a strange sensation but exhilarating, consuming, overpowering to the point when everything else fades away, something possibly dangerous, the darkness lurking under the edges of all that bright, warm light. The energy that creates itself between them is pure and of the healing kind, but the shadows she had been infected with overtime leave consequences behind, turning her into something that she had always feared, something that could no longer crawl out back from hell.

The ache subsides gradually, burning itself out the longer they stay connected, the pain and sorrow molding into a strange kind of meteor that burns in this new atmosphere created between them. Her ragged soul smoothens its structure, but the beast is too much of a human to stop; it still wants more. She pushes herself on him, pinning him down until she lays on top of him, pulling at his clothes and lifting it, moving her fingernails against his chest as if they were covered in paint, imagining streaks of blue and red coloring his skin, wanting as little fabric as possible between them. He was her fabric, her canvas made only for her to touch. The thought blooms unexpectedly between her unsteady breaths - and it's the same moment when reality, unwelcomed, starts to sip through, matter growing into shape, as more layers of calm, coat her bones and skin, softness holding her in a warm embrace. It does not stop the fires in her but changes their form into something more aware - bringing all of her senses into motion, specifically the sense of touch. Pressure on the skin. The feeling of being held in place.

Restrain, strength, urgency.

A click, a snap. The sound of glass breaking around the haze.

My eyes flutter open, instantly pained by the brightness coming from the TV, the only thing bringing light into the room at this time of day, mind having difficulty understanding its surroundings. The physical part of me is the first to react as the feeling of pressure on my arms hits me again, making me focus. I look down and notice hands on my wrists holding me in place; my stare lifts, and I see him lying under me, securing me in place with force, depriving me even of the slightest chance of movement. He's actions are rough, but his stare remains gentle under the flames circulating around the dilated pupils, leaving little blue to see. Two massive black holes surrounded by fires and water. A wave of heat hits my face as I stare at him in shock, slowly understanding what had just happened. My heart pounds like a madman in my chest, embarrassment covering me like something ugly and dirty. Something I don't want. I move back to the furthest part of the sofa as if someone had just tasered me and gape at him with scared, wide eyes.

Charlie...

I stutter and then trail off, not certain if there were any words for the mayhem that took over her, over everything. I blink several times and lift my hands absentmindedly to my hair, fingers slipping through it and holding the sides of my head while I look around the room, confused. The surroundings seem alien to me at first, as if I wasn't fully aware of where I was, my eyes tripping over every object in sight as if hoping I could find some answers there. I can feel something in me break and crack, the sound of metal hitting the ground with a cacophony of sounds only for me to hear. It's a sensation that could damage even the strongest soul, but I just let it breathe inside of me and fill my structure for a while - the feeling is too familiar by now to destroy me even further. I want to explain myself to him, even though part of me knows he will understand. If only there weren't so many things at stake here.

If this was just an ordinary moment between two people, a burst of passion that would lead to even more fires then it would have been alright. More than alright. Overwhelming in the most delicious way, something they both would have sank without hesitation. Just another scene in life, a simple boy meets girl kind of thing. Sparks flying everywhere without causing their worlds to burn in flames. But unfortunately, this wasn't the case. Not just another down-to-earth story where the characters had to battle their way through, only to end up together when everything had been said and done. She was running on borrowed time, and she knew it. The final chapter would look different for her.

Nora?

She gazes at her hands holding onto the blanket tightly, knuckles whiter than snow. Gradually her stare lifts, and she catches his stare.

I'm sorry.

My voice seems barely audible.

I wish I was stronger than I am. I wish that I could fight through the pain and not endanger what we have between us because it's too valuable for it to get lost.

His eyes follow mine, but he doesn't say anything, his eyes penetrating my soul as if seeing the barest parts of me that had nothing to do with my body. His hand lifts towards me, but I shake my head, somehow fearful of his touch after everything that had occurred between us. I get up surprisingly steadily and walk over to the window, watching drops of cold rain hit the glass, the sky above my head colored in the sharpest shade of steel. I cross my arms and stare at the life outside my apartment, running its course - it feels like a life I am permanently separated from. I inhale deeper as if wanting to consume the grayness of the day inside my tattered lungs.

And if it got lost, I feel I might disappear completely.

My voice is so low I'm not sure he even heard me. I make myself continue before my sudden courage evaporates.

I think that if things were different, in an alternate reality where I wasn't a threat to

everyone I get too close to...

I feel him shift on the sofa, and my eyes shut tighter as I take a deeper breath.

I feel there would be room for more between us, maybe more than I care to admit. But right now, I can't risk losing what we have. I can't risk something I can't live without.

I can't risk losing someone that returned life to me as much as possible, with its subtle reflections and colors, slightly faded out by the darkness around me but real, meaningful. You're my last autumn light flickering through the bare branches, the last touch of something warm. I think to myself but choose to leave it to myself. I feel the words would be too awkward, too flat if I gave them a voice, losing their depth to something far too shallow. My fists tighten against the windowsill.

I should have been stronger. Instead, I'm this weak, pathetic thing. I don't know how you put up with me.

I feel anger move through my muscles and concentrate on it, focusing on it for support. After a moment, I turn around slightly, gazing at him - and I think that he understands, not the last words but everything else I said. And even though I don't want to think about it, I know that he feels things for me too. Perhaps, I always knew. It's a strange thing to admit to, even if it's just to myself. He gets up as well, and I stare back at the view of the street and the people leading their normal, mundane lives. I close my eyes and feel the warmth of his body against my back as his arms slip around my waist, his chin resting gently on my left shoulder. I don't stiffen or feel uneasy for all the signs of affection that he gives me - the side of me that fights any kind of attachment suddenly dormant and still, the bruised parts that I hold close to me just to survive, quiet somehow. I let myself lean against him, sinking into his welcoming form. I feel emotions overtaking me like a warm summer wave, ready to escape at any moment, but I keep it at bay.

I can't risk those things either. If there is a chance for us one day then we will take it. For now, I'm just happy you exist in the same world as I do.

He shifts and kisses the top of my head, and I inhale his scent in my lungs. Don't stay in it too long; it will be that much harder when it's being ripped away from you. The logical side murmurs and I listen, shifting gently away from his embrace. I smile at him, bring up the last resources of strength I have left, and close the window of opportunity between us, shifting all possible feelings to the back of my being. I shove it with as much ruthlessness as I can master while my skin becomes as hard as the shade of sky outside the window.

Then you must enjoy the company of strange individuals more than you should.

I cross my arms over my chest and try to sound light, but it comes out rather miserable; then my stomach rumbles, and I jump, startled, shocked that such prosaic things are still a part of my world. I think the sound sends us both into our normal routine, and I am grateful for it. He shakes his head and walks over to the cabinets.

I think it's feeding time. I have this sinking suspicion you don't even remember the last time you ate. Now sit down patiently while I make you something.

He looks around for a moment and furrows his eyebrows.

Alright, change of plans. After your morning de-cluttering session, I think some shopping is in order.

Hey, as long as your providing the supplies then knock yourself out.

He nods but sends me a look.

What?

Do you think you will be alright while I'm gone?

I sigh, scrunching my face.

All is well, Charlie, I promise. Currently, I am the best version of my mean-streaked, odd-sense-of-humor self. Take your time; I got some work to do anyway.

He looks doubtful.

Believe it or not, my beautiful freeloader traits have their limits. The bills still need to get paid. So let me fire up my laptop, download new photographs and find amateurs for my tremendous art. And Charlie?

He gazes at me while he puts on his jacket.

I'm not too good at showing signs of affection but uhm... I'm glad you're here too. Happy that you... exist.

The sides of his lips lift.

I know. But it's good to hear it sometimes. I will be back soon.

The door shuts behind him, and I hear the sound of the key turning as he locks it. I listen to the faint noise of his steps as he runs down the stairs and shake my head at how familiar and homey that seems. I'm not sure how I feel about it and chose not to dwell on it. Tricky territory. I sit down by the computer and plug in the cable for my camera, finally seeing the results of my work on a bigger screen. I smile at all the images caught in the park and marvel at how strange it was that those quiet moments happened only a few days ago. My eyes scan each photograph and select the ones that will be most alluring to the potential buyer, depending on the light, composition, and what was going on in the background. You had to be very picky about the material you wanted to choose - as picky as all the people examining them before any purchase.

I get lost in the process, relaxing as the routine of the task, soothes my thoughts, silencing all unnecessary chaos in my head. It works well for a while, but the random visions still flash under my eyelids when my guard drops too low. Images of my nails digging into his skin, as if electrical plugs looking for a source of energy, mixing with memories of the tapestry of his back muscles flexing and bending under my touch - catching my breath sharply, as I realize there was no way of telling where he began and where I started in those stolen moments that I might never get again. Still feeling his flavor on my tongue, his smell that reminded me of sandalwood, spices, and a heated air at the end of another hot summer day, those hands so greedily roaming my body, wanting to learn me as if I was a landscape, a mountain chain that he needed to draw, his personal sunset exploding into colors with every touch. Remembering how he stole my last breath over and over, only to bring me back to life. The sweetest death, the most brilliant rebirth. It was worth it. Something in me murmurs, and I know it's true. I give myself a few more slow moments with the memories and then snap out of it, focusing all my attention on the problems I could still solve and improve, finances being the best rational excuse society had to offer.

I gaze back at the screen and feel an invisible soft whisper tickle my skin like a pesky fly. You haven't put a lock on that window. Why? It was right there next to the handle; it was so easy. Why didn't you? A sort of burning sensation fills my chest, both hot and cold. It's the same sensation as when returning from the chilling air of winter, as your lungs pain you from inhaling too much ice. The sensation is both aching and magnificent. Like swallowing up the universe and inhaling too many stars, meant for souls but not the physical bodies. Collateral beauty - I think and stop breathing for a moment - scared to answer the question asked without any words. Because if I answered it, there might not be enough strength in me to stop me from opening the window again.

And the irony was that no matter the fear I felt right now, I also knew that I would probably never put that lock into place, I would never shut it permanently. It felt wrong to do so, unnatural almost. As if fighting against something bigger than I could understand. It's not your place to defy gravity. A quiet voice rings out somewhere under my skin, and I nod with unusual calm - a feeling of unexplainable peace washing over me and grounding me into place.

__________

https://theprose.com/post/230936/with-all-my-senses ( the beginning )

.

Previous chapters :

.

52. https://theprose.com/post/526170/walking-on-eggshells-and-ash

53. https://theprose.com/post/553492/those-whispers-under-the-wooden-boards

54. https://theprose.com/post/706199/the-motion-and-interaction-of-erratic-things

There's an ahhhh in your Amen,

Sighed unlike when saying Grace

And where Gratitudes extend.....

There is no Finality, and no Vain,

Whispering back, in God's Name.