The corpse bride is in the living room

You know, all those people that I just had to love, to impress, to amaze. I’ve been thinking about them. I always had such a soft spot for the unloved, the damaged, the marginalized, the wounded. Oh, no, I didn’t have the Jesus Christ complex. And I was not special. Nor was I loving, forgiving, tolerant or generous. No. I was a pervert. I was turned on by other people’s pain. It had a magnetic power over me. And then I pretended to love them until they became addicted, until they put me on a pedestal and called me “goddess”, “your majesty”, “countess”, “my love” or “baby”. I was so good at it I even convinced myself I was honest and could swear it was true. The moment I felt powerful enough though, I left them. “It’s time they discovered their own power”, I told myself to justify my cruelty.  “They shouldn’t be living in my shadow, they should shine.”

But the truth is I was a parasite. I used to feed on their pain. So when they felt so loved  that they no longer hurt, I made them hurt so that my feast could go on. I was puzzled every time someone didn’t become fascinated by me, every time someone skipped the pedestal phase, every time someone didn’t absolutely adore me, worship me, make me the sole purpose of their life.

All this time I haven’t loved anybody. Nor have I tried, to be perfectly honest. Brutally honest, as I usually am. The kind of brutality bondage involves, when the sub is all tied up and suspended and cannot hide that cellulite on the bare thighs, that muffin top, the wrinkles or the fears. Brutal honesty all the way. For me it was all a bunch of stories I was telling myself. I was pretending. Every time. Pretending to care about the other. When all time the only person I was trying to look after was myself. And it was never enough. That lack, the void, the sharp mind that cut through the veils of the heart, my feet firmly stuck to the ground, my open eyes while fucking (sorry, love making) – each of them murder accomplices.

I could tell you all about all those people who didn’t love me, I could tell you all about being left, deserted, betrayed, lied to, cheated on, forgotten, skipped, hurt, offended, beaten up, slapped, diminished, humiliated. But it would all be a lie. Not that it didn’t all happen. It did. Or a version of it, anyway. But what good would that do? I am not looking for excuses. Not any more.

You know, I was thinking if I could, I would travel in the lives of all those women you loved without loving and I would love them instead. Just to make things right. And all those men you were too afraid to love. And I would freeze to death all those men and women who didn’t love you. Just by the power of my sharp gaze. And still, that wouldn’t make your heart any warmer. Neither yours, nor mine. But I know now it is not you that I would be trying to save. It’s me.

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