I Did It

   It's true. The last time I did it, I was not with you. The last time I felt happy, and pleased with life. You were nowhere to be found. You were not around the corner. You were not a mile away. Hell, I think it is safe to say, you were several zip codes in distance.
   The last time I did it you were fast asleep. Dead to the world. The last time I was on my knees, half naked, fist clenched to the sky, and happy for all that I have taken from the world. You were nowhere to be found. It is not like I passed by the thought of you, idly. I stared into that "abyss" that everyone wants to throw around like a two dollar word. I cupped my hands, and yelled your name. You were not there.
    Is that my fault? Quite possibly, yes. Should I be treated like it was? I say, emphatically, fuck no. That little slice of heaven, that crashed over me, like a boy in the ocean for the first time. That small "nirvana" that hit my soul, like a prize fighter, in over his head. That sliver that can only be described as, "the joy of joys", that gave me on full minute peace from my own ego. It was there. I felt it. I saw it. I tasted it. Where were you?
   That night I fell into a deep trance. Covered in paint, and my mouth dripping with feminine honey. I slipped in and out of warmth, and heard yells that made me swoon. The space in which I existed became chaos. The time in which I inhabited lasted forever. I could do no wrong, without even trying.
   You?
   I do not pretend to know.
  I smiled grandly, while staring into the face of the beast. I grabbed it by its throat. It enjoys that. I have found that I add to my joy, by strangling beauty. It is me. It is I. It is the large encompassing world that drives me to take the ferocity of smile, and cover it with the palm of my hand. Listen to its muffled screams of excitement. It is the death of your memory, and the infinite longevity that is my tainted existence.

 

“Self-Portrait with a Mirror”, 1908, Léon Spilliaert.