The Truth Is a Trigger, Ta
A Love Story with an Unhappy Ending
Dedicated to one observer whom I know is achieving psycho-sexual pleasure out of their schadenfreude right this very moment. Lucky fucking you.
What’s the proper treatment, nurse?
Hospitalisation?
Constant medication?
Beating my head against a wall? Brick? Padded?
Vagina-velvet soft or dick hard? By your hand or my own?
A vow of silence? Sew up that mouth.
Will it ever be enough?
Tell me the terms of my punishment.
Could you hurry; someone is watching who can’t wait to lick up the bloody crumbs.
I don’t remember what my own heartbeat feels like.
Nothing but a flawed human here.
Whoever you are, what crimes were committed?
Why are you so sure you’re better? The judge, the jury, the executioner.
All I did was love.
Oh the error of my mistaken ways.
Not the fairy-tale kind of love she wanted,
but the only kind of love I could give.
The love of a broken friend
She of the sweetest warrior spirit
who said she would never give up
Oh — but there is always an expiry date.
The only one to never give up on must be yourself.
Many times I wondered what universe could I create
where we could ever, for even one moment, be together.
I’ll write it.
You’ll love it.
We’ll live it.
Fucking failure upon re-entry.
Fake it til you make it. No.
You took the centre stage away from my real-life grief.
My solace turned into a new self-torture.
I burned myself anew for you,
Gladly so; no one asked me to.
My heart cracks open for y —
Stop.
I miss you —
Stop.
Smells like a trigger of my PTSd.
It isn’t “Why do people keep hurting you, Thom?”
It’s “Why do you keep hurting yourself?”
And that’s the truth of it.
