“I Was More” Or:

“what doesn’t kill you doesn’t automatically make you interesting” (A story-scream)

(I found this story while looking for something else, I wrote it two years ago as a twitter thread. I put it here now.)

On this day 7 years ago’

The reaction, immediate. I must dismiss it, before it takes hold. Raising my hand, I make the error of full perception.

Scale-stretched skin, creases banked by polystyrene callouses. Gnarled humps once tender, nails lined with dead tendrils of broken skin.

A cruel contrast to Her. Smiling eyes and well-tanned skin. A dress that I could wear on TV and not be ashamed, now crushed and forgotten at the bottom of my wardrobe.

Her hand, smooth and moisture-nourished, waving back at me through blue glow. The sun never setting on her smile.

“Oh love, how you’ve befouled us. You remember when you were I. I of the satisfaction-soft cheeks and love-bright eyes. Of tongue and pen and firm embrace.

It has not been so long since you were this. My love, what did you do to me?”

I try to shake away the razor voice. Wise, well-educated, well-bred. A life pulled across the whetstone, coming out with a cleaner edge than all.

I am nothing, to Her. All stuttering voice, cracking at its edges. She has me in her grip. I am helpless.

“Bouyed and charmed. Cocktails after work, a twinkle in your manager’s eye. Letters after his name, he knows you were born to this. Of course, usually a boy’s club, of course, though they’ll make an exception for one such as you.

The world in your soft palms.

Oh, but you had stories. How you held court at parties, speaking of youth and grimy excess. ‘Take our hand and guide us to the underworld again!’

Pass the port and tell them of twinks and bears and alleyways. What larks, to have so much to tell, here in the safe and warm.

Escaped the pit, didn’t you? Crawled out with bloodied fingers, broken nose, choking back pus, crawled up and out and away from the damage.

Of course, so tragic, so inevitable you’d fall back down again. Of course, I could only ever be temporary.

Sorry, my love. I know the truth of it.

Ever the same. Wouldn’t life be more fun if you had more damage? Wouldn’t that make you more interesting?

Accept every offer, take everything, fuck everyone. This’ll make a good story later, we’ll all laugh at this later.

Sad stories are always better. You’ve always known that.

Like when a teenager, sneaking from middle-class suburbia to suck piss-dripping cock in the car park after dark.

You’d whisper your legend to enraptured ears.

Paint yourself an exile from heaven, tell them you’re alone, tell them you’re broken, that you’re less than you are.

It was just a holiday.

You’d wipe the cum from your lips, back home before your mum gets worried, she’s just put the kettle on, would you like a cup of tea? Yes please, two sugars. Did you enjoy your walk? Time for bed, night night sweetheart.

Do it again tomorrow.

Of course, you’d speak of each encounter later on, when you were I, like the explorer returned from the wilderness.

A little affected sadness here, a nod and a sigh there. ‘Oh, of course, I didn’t know what I was doing’

Was your damage special? Silly boy, that was just puberty.

You had to kill me. What you had become did not fit so neatly. A comfortable life, respected by all, loved by many.

And now, poor thing, you’re here again. Broken and twitching, fallen from grace, cast aside in your disfigurement.

You ever think…

You ever think…”

The proposals begin. She enters her flow, my body in rigour, thumb white against Her picture. She is at the pulpit, speaking the honest truth, the ignored law. Shining searing light on my deceptions. Reducing me, annihilating me, picking me apart, shattering every axiom I hold.

AXIOM I

ARE YOU THE TRAGEDY OF LOST POTENTIAL, THE ‘GIFTED KID’ OF EVERY INSIPID SELF-PITY POST. NEVER GIVEN A CHANCE TO BLOOM?

OR DID YOU DISCOVER THAT IT’S EASIER TO WEAR THE MASK OF THE BROKEN BIRD, ALWAYS READY TO HAVE A ‘CRISIS’ WHEN ASKED TO MAKE ANY EFFORT AT ALL?

AXIOM II

ARE YOU A LIVING COMPENDIUM OF DISORDERS, A CO-MORBID MESS OF A SCRAMBLED MIND AND SHATTERED BODY?

OR DO YOU HUNT FOR EACH, NO MATTER HOW POOR A FIT, WEARING THEM LIKE A TALISMAN, A WARD AGAINST SELF-REFLECTION?

AXIOM III

DO THEY IGNORE YOU, THE CRUEL, THE FAIR, DRUNK ON SELF-ASSURANCE? ARE THEY WITCHES, MOTHS AND FAE, DELIGHTING IN PAIN ON SOFT THINGS LIKE YOU?

OR ARE THEY WISE TO YOUR GAME, WAVING YOUR HURT AROUND LIKE AN EXPOSED ASSHOLE, DESPERATE TO GUILT SOMEBODY INTO FILLING YOU?

AXIOM IV

ARE YOU DRIVEN BY COMPULSION, BY ADDICTION, BY FEVER, BY MEDS? WORKING THROUGH A MIST, LUCKY TO ACHIEVE WHAT LITTLE VICTORIES YOU DO?

OR DO YOU ADOPT THE TRAPPINGS OF THE SICK, WANKING OVER THE AESTHETIC AND PITY AND STRUGGLE?

AXIOM FINAL

DON’T YOU THINK THAT THE MOST DISGUSTING THING IS THAT YOU’VE BEEN IN CONTROL ALL THIS TIME?

DON’T YOU KNOW YOU HAD THE CHANCE TO BE MORE, AND CHOSE THIS INSTEAD?”

I tear at the picture, I break her comfort-soft face, I chew and swallow and digest her whole, the Past Me, the Dead Me, the ashes and bones of what was More. I heave my carcass to the wall, take my knife and inscribe the words into my skin again.

YOU MADE YOUR BED NOW LIE IN IT.

YOU MADE YOUR BED NOW LIE IN IT.

YOU MADE YOUR BED NOW LIE IN IT.

YOU MADE YOUR BED NOW LIE IN IT.

YOU MADE YOUR BED NOW LIE IN IT.

YOU MADE YOUR BED NOW LIE IN IT.

YOU MADE YOUR BED NOW LIE IN IT.

YOU MADE YOUR BED NOW LIE IN IT.

YOU MADE YOUR BED NOW LIE IN IT.

YOU MADE YOUR BED NOW LIE IN IT.

YOU MADE YOUR BED NOW LIE IN IT.

YOU MADE YOUR BED NOW LIE IN IT.