Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Fuck you youtube. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I just found it again. I just found the song she sang to me when I broke up with her.

The first girl I dated had a shaved head and an amazing body, and she looked like Tank Girl, but inside she was sort of sad and sick and fucked up and she had all these problems, like that wannabe rapist ex-boyfriend she lived with, and after a month I couldn’t deal with it anymore, so I broke up with her, and she called me back, and she sang a song, a beautiful song, to me over the phone, because she’d fallen in love with me, and she’d be in love with me for another ten years at least, and maybe she’s still in love with me still, but I never loved her, and a week after she sang to me I got the tape in the mail, and this was 1997, when people still did things like make mixed cassette tapes for the insensitive boy who broke up with them, and the first song on the tape was the song she sang for me, but it wasn’t her song, it was somebody else’s song, it was Ani DiFranco’s song, and most of the rest of the tape was Ani DiFranco songs, and some radiohead, so I went out and bought all her albums for myself so I wouldn’t be forced to be tied into to that sad little girl who loved me so much, and we’d fuck a bunch more times after that anyway, and she’d follow me to the city and she’d write me more love poems than you can actually imagine, some of which I still have in a cardboard box in the closet tied up with purple ribbon and largely…

unread.

“There’s nothing more beautiful than a lovely girl with nothing to say,” he said, fetching his bag of tools from the backseat of the cab. “A lovely mouth and what’s to be stuck in it, hmmm?”

While outside, the crowd dispersed quickly into the night. 

I fell in love with a girl who looked like a back-alley cat, with ragged ears and a torn tail. With dirt under her claws, and twisted teeth as sharp as knives. 

I fell in love with her, but it wasn’t really her, it was just the idea of her. Have you ever made that mistake before, of loving a person for their image, instead of for themselves?

God, I’ve always wanted somebody to do that to me. To be disappointed when they really got to know me. I always wanted to look cooler than I am, but I never seemed to pull it off. 

I want somebody to bring out the worst in me. I want an excuse to get violent, and mean. I want somebody to let me be a little cruel, and not to play, but to get a result. I want to scare somebody, see them pissing their pants at the idea of it.

Yeah, I fell in love with her, and her shaved little stubbly head and her awesome collection of graphic novels, and then, by the time I was done with her, she’d fallen in love with me, and all that useless crap I’d accumulated in place of a personality. 

I want my personality to form a cult. I want to poor poisoned purple Kool Aid into the punch bowl. I want to build a prison for people who love me.

They tried to burn me out of her; they used electro-shock and they used drugs and they used a lack of kindness. Eventually she drifted away. I don’t know if she ever got any better, ‘cause I got too scared of her to let her get too close.

You know how those girls can be.

I was a ghost in her bed; I haunted her until one morning she woke up and forgot to look for me, and thusly, I was gone.

Yeah, I was a ghost in her hands. I was half a memory that reminded her more of ex or her step-dad or some other asshole she had to put up with for longer than she should have.

Just a ghost. Just a digital transcription. 

We used to hang out, talking about everything. We used to see into the futre and the past at the same time. We used to be living creatures breathing the same air and eating the same food and loving the same lovers.

But then I faded immaterial and see-through.
Yeah, she saw shot straight through me.  

And then I was just a ghost.

And then I was just gone.