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The Irresolute Haunting of a Twilight Consciousness.
// Nabokov made a career of idealized first love, a fantasy-romp eliding predation’s lens for pliable diversion, deferred possession exacted by prose.
Doom me to any alternate eternity. I’ll take Tartarus. Am I to otherwise expend my life’s remainder getting over first love?
Night has gnawed me with recurrings from an undergrad dimension. Warped, and vivid as your forsaken touch, I gulp in my sleep and knit brow furrows, troubled by vestiges in daylight. The nightmares began in January, as I collected remnant will—MFA candidacy in summons for a future.
By infared glow cascading from pleated stitching, spilled across mirrored brass and crushed satin, to cast uncanny chiaroscuro my sleep-haggard face—screenlit, squinting for verbiage specificity.
You, the first bedmate whose opinion I actually cared about,
in contrast to that light-catching quality of lust objects, feeble allure to experience the spoils of oneself
Perhaps it was because it took until now to dawn that I hadn’t loved before you, and the ways I love now will never be replete with mad innocence.
My comrade lover, whom I loved (full-heartedly, self-reproachfully) instinctively before having ever known love. Time is an antidote to childhood poisons. What I do now is deprive and pedestalize affection; I cower from connection’s evitable outcomes.
What writer would trade the lover rendered on the exquisite page for the fleshly culpable reality?

Thanks to immortal data, I can revisit the carnage of a previous identity anytime I strike the punishing mood.
It was a formative collision, and since, I haven’t been able to resist its comparison. Your character and my fixation for your form gave me the yardstick to wield against future paramours, in my insufferable, self-punishing impenetrability.
Failure-languishing vanity, I’d call it.
Pathological vacua, a latent inability to let go, an
unwilling grip for long-forsaken control.

Shut up, there are years 

you go without thinking of him. 

When things are well, when you are enraptured 

in forward momentum, when 

the world at hand is not 

besieged by indefiniteness, you don’t cast a backsliding glance. 

And when he was in the same room as you, you 

extinguished flame for swallowed 

rage and incinerated pride, you withheld 

affection or even eye contact. 

This hypocrisy is unforgiven.



forsaken ground 

like a recoil 



a guppy having 

swallowed a lightning rod


Fibrous, as noxious

as venomous.


Candor merciless

allusions, foully colorful

a voice

a blade

shears through

night’s vacuum


the lens stays shut
in sanctum’s sake


salvage your 

comforts elsewhere, 


solace seeker,

larvate on some

other sap.

take Buñuel’s obscure object of desire - a preoccupation, a compulsion, 

obsessive consumptive desire and 

affinity for flesh and 

another’s inimitable interiority

An unspoken madness and ecstatic magnitude limb-to-limb tearing.

And what of it 

as it fizzles 

for fulfillment?


Supplanted by void,

The unspeakable treachery of 

weary heart’s vacuity

spawned by one’s founding, unmitigable intensity.


the punishing flee

Turn tail at unmet 


madness unreciprocated.

I know now why I will yet be the woman running, infulfullibly. Indefatigable compulsion to escape self-imprisonment by self-doom.

Compulsion like a moth’s pull to the nearest false beacon, that lifelong search for parental validation, unhealthy boundary breaches, a toxic concoction of casualness, charisma, and dismissiveness propagating an inappropriate attachment style,
a formula for reserve, and always ends in ghosting,
as I cast fallow season’s shed
skin to the wind, in pursuit of my next chrysalides.

I was so emotionally stunted, it’s taken me 5 years and a pandemic to apologize.

Moreover painfully immature, in desperate cling to pride, and above all in need of guidance⁠—the father void, the vacuum-like quest, the infeasibility of a still moment to be yours. You, high all the time, and me, possessed with the firewater of nihilism. Still, you tolerated that I was crazed. How unfair, to be a sapling splitting in the wind, lashing out against any staying aid.


Death to the consumptive vacuity of the “chill” girl-who’s-one-of-the-guys persona. Death to poorly-informed nihilism. Death to ambivalence.


My pupation from drunken audacious to quietly judgmental, complete, there

still seethes a sub-surface volatility, a viper’s strike insecurity provoked at any anticipated slight.


I see now, there is no alternative to relinquishing granular minutiae of private experience to consumptive pry. The generation / free association of value in a voyeur-driven reality marketplace is through performed service, intimate sacrilege to attention economy tradeoffs

Our lives are diminished, if not endangered.

Divert to Herman Hesse’s Narcissus and Goldmund a fanciful plague parable about the disparate arcs of the artist and the ascetic thinker, two fork tines in truth’s pursuit.

Divert to Bergman's Cries and Whispers.

Carnal love 

wears quickly thin


a respect and 

admiration that 

weathers, as 

aliveness putresces.



sidelong, backsliding 


To put words to, is to blaspheme detonation

in the consummation of platonic love deferred its romantic 

attraction by otherwise extrications.

How I gazed at you with a fucked up Achillean admiration, 


but i repeat this play with all my paramours and

I only fuck the characters I aspire to be.

living through that vague, vibrant-streaked spell of twenties, 

Itinerant sent incinerant desire to rewrite themselves a new start, 

as self-conscious, oblivious ingrates classically present.

The lure of un-pockmarked reality, fresh-faced freedom from bleakness of familiarity.


Then, up sneaks the suspicion that this 

toil will lifelong be 

an unkickable habit, rejection of the known 

for unconquered entertainment.


immitigable concentrate, intensity sours any placatable prospect;

irresolute, a weakness of self-fancy


When she was not chasing for an Apollo or evading the wandering gaze of a Dionysius, clandestinely consumed in envy of those self-possessed writers who righteously knew no protagonist, ever and without question, but themselves.

What would she give in her weakest of half-unawoken moments, to be horizontal with him again? 

That divine crushing pressure from his torso above, driving to fill her fully in excruciatingly languid pumps

How she inhabited with relish, the haplessness of a bug underfoot.

The lightest friction of two elbows sunk at her flanks, knuckle clamped over knuckle, guttural cries clutched in her throat. Sweat mingling, him dipping his forehead to rest against hers, a tenderly patronizing gesture. What could she do but expedite torture and fight back with writhe in her loins, working him until he had no ground to stand on, until hers was the earth for this fallen cypress. Her cunt gurgled and lapped in agreement. A lightning rod of dread rattled through her at the anticipation that he would have to slump off her, unsheathe himself of velvet. With backward reach, she gripped his buttocks with her frail excuse for desperate hands to keep him coupled in place; receiving his plugging nudges in response, she rippled.

A sensory oasis between sheets awaits, but its appeal wanes like the flicker out of candle flame. Carnality in brute satiation catharts in passing.

Whenever I have my period, my writing is uncomely ribaldry.


I cannot languish my affections on someone who is only lukewarm about me.

Firmly, I have more to offer than that.


Where are we to put our thwarted sexual and peri-existential ennui?


// The Irresolute Haunting of a Twilight Consciousness.

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