When God and You matched on Hinge

Look at these old pictures! Fuck!
How well I had convinced myself that I was wearing my grief well.
I mean, look at me, look at these pictures!

So in media res it is.

Speaking in a dead language doesn’t make you God.

But going through your graves does?

Look at the pictures!

I am looking.

Out for me?

I am looking.

‘Course you are. Because look at these pictures.
All from last year.
See the way the veins jut out on my head, the forehead bright and glistening,
the hairline stretched further from my forehead
unlike my ex’s dick from my body.
And the bones in my neck!
Choking, almost, the very throat that holds it.
I was so fucked last year.

Indeed you were.

Say it.

Say what?

Say I was fucked last year.

The distinction between ‘I’ and ‘You’;
blurred to the point of erasure.

Fuck it.

Scrolling through screenshots, YOU come across a since deleted WhatsApp chat

Messages and calls are end-to-end encrypted. No one outside of this chat, not even WhatsApp, can read or listen to them. Tap to learn more.

Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you

fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you where have you been fuck you fuck you fuck you I hate you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you what the hell man fuck you you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you you waste your time on CH and don’t do your video and when I call you out you act like a whiny ass child fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you and no I don’t care one bit your life do whatever fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you and I didn’t notice you were absent all day and that you have barely spoken to me ALL DAY fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you I HATE YOU SOOOOO MUCH!!!!!!!!!!! FUCK YOU!!!!

Why do you miss him?

He touched me in places no one had ever been in before.

Hey, you xD
If you and I were the two sides of Match The Following, my hands would be the answer to all of you. ;)︎︎

That’s why it hurts. It’s lonely being a person.
When someone touches you,
you can still feel their touch
long after the hand has returned to the body

It is lonely being a God.

I went through three dating apps in three days.
Scrolled through faces like it’s Amazon,
Hoping that someone could help distract from the gnawing void inside.
It just creeps up, from nowhere, like bile.
One moment I am reading, minding my business.
The next I am drowning. It’s so sudden!
I can imaging a dark monster crawling from the inside of me,
escaping through all my pores and holes
and then devouring me whole,
like a fucking python, except it’s like it’s one of those games
where the snake consumes itself,
because the monster came out of me and then ate me
like some incestuous fuckery.
But once the monster has me in its maws,
I don’t know my way out because it’s so dark inside.
So dark. So fucking dark.
And I need to turn to a distraction to turn on the light,
because light is a distraction when the monster has me.
So I zoom through Netflix, Twitter, books…
Like we didn’t go through years of evolution
to live our lives in eternal fear of our own selves.
The light at the end of the tunnel
shouldn’t be the phone screen playing a YouTube Short
of Kylie Jenner calling out to Stormi.
But here we are.

Where is here?

Nowhere.

If you add some space, then…

I thought I needed some space.
That’s what I told my match on Hinge this morning.
I told him I am not ready. For any of this.
This conversation thing. This getting to know people thing.
I told him that I am so deep into myself
that there’s no space for no other.

What bullshit.

So you do swear.

In the manner of swearing on discharge and desire,
and in my name?
Yes.

When does loneliness end and become solitude?

When does solitude reveal itself to be con(g/c)ealed loneliness?

And when does loneliness become God?

Become you?

When there’s nowhere you’d rather be than here.

Add a little space.

I am bursting.

Add a little space.

I can’t breathe.

Add a little space.

There’s a black hole at the center of my being
eating away at the space and its bounds.

What is a painting?
The canvas or the frame?

What is a person?
The self or the body?

When does a person end?
In death or in memory?

I still miss him.
I dreamt of him the other day.
It’s so fucked that we see in dreams
the very people we don’t want to see again
or cannot see again.
When I woke up, I woke up with this odd feeling of hope,
like I am gonna see him again,
like I am driving to meet him
because in the dream I’m headed towards him
because for once he’s the one waiting for me.

Even I am perpetually waiting for someone or the other.

Tiring, isn’t it?

Not to me if it’s you.

What are you waiting for me to do?

For you to not see love as devotion.
Not all are Gods. And not all demand temples.
Not that guy leering at you from across the screen
as he ogles at your Bumble profile,
whose gaze you can feel across pixels and waves
even if you can’t see it.
Not even that guy waiting to be “done” with you
just so you make him a shrine out of your poems.
You are not fucked.

I feel like I want to be saved.

Who doesn’t?

You too?

Especially me.

What do you want to be rescued from?

Myself.

To become God is the loneliest achievement, huh?

Like you in love.
You devour, you consume, you inhale them,
wanting to wear them, drape yourself in their skin,
drink them whole
like a…

God.

I shouldn’t have been an aspiration.

Yet here we are.

Where is here?

Nowhere

Now here.

Are you sure you want to unmatch?
That’ll delete the conversation for both YOU and GOD.

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Remember:
Loneliness is the hinge that holds your door.