When Hearts & Snakes Shed Their Skins
He still only has a heart for himself, and no one else.
I don’t think he ever cared about any of his women, including me, except as extensions and reflections of himself- as objects in the scenery of his fakeass show.
He lied constantly to me in person and on this Blasted Heath, seeking not to express anything to me or truly communicate with me, but to manipulate me, lie to me, and wear masks.
He was too scared to be real with me, but instead of making the tiniest effort to get real, he wasted large swaths of his time and mine. He would occasionally dog-whistle that he was coming back to me; this kept me on the hook. It’s still possible that he’s just an empty sadist with infinite nothingness inside, in which case this must’ve been fun for him.
He posted love poetry for new women, salting the poems generously with references to things the two of us shared alone together, like a fucking asshole, driving me to keep checking back for more dog whistles. He even did this manipulative shit with a poem about a marriage proposal.
He’s a slimy bastard and an Irretrievable Pussyhound.
The ground of his stunted heart is full of ashes and stones, lying in shadow.
He can only lie and fake. A reptile, a snake.
Disregarding warning signs as they flew by, I thought I saw another human in pain, like me. I should not have trusted him, but I did. Because I could almost hear the cries of fear, terror, and pain coming from the neglected and abused boy child hiding just below his controlled surface. The boy could see me, and he kept stretching his open arms out to me, pleading. How could a man that contained this child possibly hurt me? In love, I pressed my naked heart to his, to show him I was safe, and he destroyed me anyway. The woman I was suffered a painful, lonely death at his hands. She hadn’t been so abused in a long, long time, and it felt both completely disorienting and horribly familiar.
My heart’s new skin is tender, and when I am reminded of him and his shitty treatment of others and his hollow excuse of an existence, I feel a mixture of pity, disgust, and anger towards him.
A bitter brew, indeed, Skybrother Gutstop.
Like the ghost narrator of this song, I used to wander the shore and watch for his promised return:
Now I know all of it was lies. He’s made me despise him.
He’s the sick, sadistic bully of the noir, not the truth-hungry lovestruck detective. And I like the detectives, not the gross bullying villains.