Be Mine.

Another Valentine’s Day without you in my arms. Who is “You” anyway? On that point I’m not always so sure. Who am I writing to? My ex-bandmate, my dead husband, my mom, my niece, my brother, my first crush in elementary school… Composite characters, Dear, not YOU. All of life is my Muse. Who do I love? No one? Everyone? Probably mostly myself. Usually, my best stuff is about myself. I write about “you” the way I want someone to write about me. All the heroic and admirable qualities I expound upon are based on my own virtuous behaviors and the grace with which I carry myself through the world. Those are the ones that get the most likes and upvotes.

I know you think this blog is about you. I know you think the thousands of poems and stories I’ve written are meant for you to see and for me to wank off to. You’re wrong, of course. Just because I sprinkle in details from your phone calls and emails doesn’t mean the whole thing is about you. I just use your mundane specifics to add a touch of realism to my writing. I know I’m just talking to a brick wall when I tell you these things. You claim you don’t care if I love you or not, that my intentions are a moot point for you, your issues are my invasions into your privacy, my arrogant disrespect for your civil rights and my “scary” and violent stories that suggest I am mentally unhinged and capable of almost anything. You don’t know what I want and that coupled with my unfettered access to your personal life is what keeps you hooked. Fear and uncertainty keep you where I want you.

What do I want? You’re always asking me that… I want control, Dear. I want you to shut up and behave, to give me what I want to take without any complaining about it. I want you to submit to the plan. Get with the program. Play by my rules. Do as I say. Read my mind. My mind changes from one minute to the next so I can’t be expected to keep explaining myself. Tap into that Twin Flame energy dear and just figure out what Daddy needs without me having to bother figuring it out for myself. I don’t need to make “sense.” I don’t need to respect your “feelings” and “rights.” I just need what I need when I want it. I’m the man in charge. I know, I know… I can hear your voice in my head. And by “you” I mean the proverbial “You” not you, don’t get it twisted. It’s a tired refrain. I get it. I KNOW. It’s me. I’m the problem. And the problem is I don’t care. 

So here it is, I offer you another valentine to toss on top of all the others discarded in a pile, my millions of folded notes and love letters with razor sharp edges, your death by a thousand cuts.