In my dreams, I have a go at him with a nail gun, its very satisfying (nothing oozes out cause I'm squeamish). I have struggled with this territorial dichotomy in my nature, not jealous in the conventional sense but very conscious of what's mine, and the boundaries that come with that.
If he flirts with other girls I'm not bothered, it's his choice after all, but if I see another girl touch him, an affectionate gesture implying some past or present intimacy, a white hot poker goes through my chest and I want to hurt them both so very much. And Rothko gets it. This red gets it. Passion, anger, a mist descending over all rational thought, your being sharpened into a point of searing pain that needs to inflict the same on others. This is not the worst I've been. I was in love with someone I couldn't see very often, and such was the healthy dynamic of our relationship, I couldn't even express that desire to spend more time, so I would just clam up in misery. I remember being jealous of his hat, it got to go home with him when I couldn't. I can't begin to describe how I felt about his (always around) friends. But that was a mute jealousy, impotent, helpless. This time round, its a different beast. This time around it has a pulse, it has a voice that whispers, it has a rage that rattles the cage that holds it. But I'm a cool cat. I'm ready for it. I don't let it lead me down the road of despair, revenge and destruction that it hints at, I don't play the games it urges me to stage. This time I know he's doing it on purpose, like he's cutting me just to see if I bleed. So I do what any sane cat should in that situation and get the hell out. Rothko slit his arms at the elbows and ended his life in a pool of blood, I'm smart enough to read red for danger, and bail.
If he flirts with other girls I'm not bothered, it's his choice after all, but if I see another girl touch him, an affectionate gesture implying some past or present intimacy, a white hot poker goes through my chest and I want to hurt them both so very much. And Rothko gets it. This red gets it. Passion, anger, a mist descending over all rational thought, your being sharpened into a point of searing pain that needs to inflict the same on others. This is not the worst I've been. I was in love with someone I couldn't see very often, and such was the healthy dynamic of our relationship, I couldn't even express that desire to spend more time, so I would just clam up in misery. I remember being jealous of his hat, it got to go home with him when I couldn't. I can't begin to describe how I felt about his (always around) friends. But that was a mute jealousy, impotent, helpless. This time round, its a different beast. This time around it has a pulse, it has a voice that whispers, it has a rage that rattles the cage that holds it. But I'm a cool cat. I'm ready for it. I don't let it lead me down the road of despair, revenge and destruction that it hints at, I don't play the games it urges me to stage. This time I know he's doing it on purpose, like he's cutting me just to see if I bleed. So I do what any sane cat should in that situation and get the hell out. Rothko slit his arms at the elbows and ended his life in a pool of blood, I'm smart enough to read red for danger, and bail.
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