Missed Connections #2

You were the smallest skeleton beneath the shapeliest curves, psychic beauty exploded across a presence, a truly sweet person trapped by the pornography of your figure to disappear as another usage inside the death box trance pervasively ambient throughout your generation’s home computers, surrendering unwillingly to an ensnared hypnosis and the suggested power of attention random men threw at you by age eleven, tattooed by light to stay Lolita, and I caught you at the end of college, deeming you a kitty, not, in my mind, because you scampered about the litter box of chat rooms, but because you hopped on me and I thought, more dangerously than any online creeper, that that meant we were in love, apologies. Your father skated away from your crib to pursue sports and you decided to become the ice that led him off and inspired his neglect or abuse in a string of men that were all him and this abuse evolved into your mainstay because it was the option you were presented with from birth and there were many men quite able to replicate explicit versions of it, but you craved a type of damaged person without your same intrinsic talent for latent sexual violence, a person you could provoke unhealthy attention from, who wasn’t as natural at mental abuse as you were, who could be fashioned by your artistic license into the monster you were taught to love across the entirety of the male gender. If a man refused to hurt your feelings, you would find a way to make him, because fuck all of them, and who could blame you. I was addicted to loving girls in vain because no one had, or in their sane mind would, including you, even though you were insane, love me, and we held each other in the coma of our alternatingly abused and abusive selves. Choice did not exist and it was snooty when good citizens said otherwise. You obligated yourself to commit dissociative sex with men you could never want because the traumas their kind induced in you had forged the will of a kamikaze and I mistook the cruelty of your general disapproval as a challenge to keep loving you, despite your hidden lack of interest. I was more game to hurt one another because that was what you were insisting upon. I had the privilege of not requiring so much trauma from a partner to feel feelings in place of them. You found insult, with enough inevitable scrutiny, though I ventured none, and challenged me in quiet ways until I, being an anger tease by diverting it everywhere around you, but not at you, finally directed some abuse your way and when it came it was a diamond only I could marvel at, seeing as I did not passive aggressively pick you apart, the provocation for your cold war against me was, of course, my existence, but I simply gave you my hate by the paragraph, a painful loss of control, once your subtle castigations backed me into a corner, and it worked diametrically opposed to, and much louder than, your own. That you believed I was capable of physically harming you was proof you never bothered knowing me and evidence you were never a fan of my use of language. You despised me with such hilarious and spectacular skill, unless I was issuing the correct incorrect responses, that you judged my shitty past by ironically insisting that it forced you to have to be nice to me! Your alibi for compliance, your sticking it out with me against your brave will, was the very real neurosis, your guilt for your ambitions toward abuse, of not wanting to contribute to my poor treatment, in regards to previous relationships, never mind that I could have said the same to you, because neither of us had been treated well, but I offended you with the unforgivable sin of genuine want and care, something you decided men should be hanged for, and good for you, I loved that, I loved your sexily checkered past, even at the cost of injuring us, because your fucked past made you my favorite person. Your exes timed you by the nervous breakdown, men cuckolded until I was one of them, and I didn’t want to be like men to you, because then we wouldn’t be special, but we didn’t end up special, anyway. We had been marked, society was our shared foe, we wore the curse of art together, and I, again, mistook this as a sign that we were meant to be. If you were perpetrating a gender experiment, subconsciously or not, in order to destroy my corny affections or to make me regret not enforcing between us a certain non-religious chasteness in the name of being socially astute about female oppression, I was up for stabbing myself to death with my own dick, regardless. You embraced the value of denying me your body with an almost catholic glee and suffered how I idiotically treated us like equals, because, in trying and failing for that equality, it seemed like I didn’t understand you, but I was always slow. I meant no smugness, I just wanted us to last longer, because I was obsessed with you, not with what I could get you to perform. I met what I thought was this cute assault, this female death by etiquette, this judo upon male desire, this contemporary repression, by relying on an evil far bulkier than anything your spotty sweetness could muster to subvert, resenting your blameless societal appearance, the weighing in favor of my insipid reactions against your officially sturdier life. It felt like you were a case worker paid with bedsheets, slumming it just to come, this backwards butt plug you stalked men with, the revenge of your living better as suburban as intent can be. I wanted us against the world, but you were too hardcore to think standing against the world mattered, definitely not with someone as poor as me. I was asking if you had started a petty abuse you couldn’t finish, if you had initiated your every oppression out of boredom and, infuriated, recommended that you buy a little house or dog to feel okay. I wondered if your soul was contractual this way from the beginning, beyond psychology and environment, and how hard could it laugh at me? The despair of my tested devotion appeared before you like a menu. You spoke to me in affected reprimands, with the borrowed countenance of a nun, and I was enraged and aroused at the style of your affronting condescension, not the act itself. Our coitus involved hovering close to an implied connection so big that it fulfilled itself at our peril and left me in the wake of its pursuit while you moved on early, inside your head, at the scantest inkling of any human weakness I dared introduce, but I was clenched full canal to cervix in a pregnancy we continually invoked and cancelled between our hips, an arthritis sponsoring constriction of a passageway. I totemically embedded my Aztec child goddess and all your patsy fiancés and care-taking responsibilities were shed in sacrifice. The rest were shed. Your anxiety for my potential reprisal was the only esteem, the only come, you afforded me and so I had no choice but to stoke it, and to, ultimately, disappoint it by administering no Kung Fu attacks on your exotic horripilation. Otherwise, I was one of many, a body count of vapor to you, you skimp, you toxoplasmosis Gandhi, the parasites in your dung flattered me, you gorgeously fleeing double agent. That I brought any expectation to our congress was absurd, considering you cannot make someone care for you when they clearly do not. From those broken expectations, even at the self-professed depletion of your will, existence being a trick, kitty, so your will already had astronomical numbers, I furthered my own will into a much deeper accuracy against humankind and strayed forever in your debt. One fan of nihilism to its mandatory practitioner, as always. Everything about you was an ingenious lie you wounded yourself and others with and I couldn’t forgive you for wanting death for reasons that weren’t aesthetic. You’d do anything to extract someone’s pain and wear it like a purse and no one, especially you, ever really knew why. Perhaps I missed your aesthetic, as you did mine, but the beautiful thing about violence is – and I was handed such a sensational inner-violence just by loving you – there will never be words to capture why it is essential. Seeing as I wrote this letter under your bed, like an artist, for myself, and, as the police pursued, I was in the process of being dragged, though my mask became stuck between mattress and floor – it was on my head purely for decorous purposes, not to shield identity – I held out hope that the sentiment of my letter would someday be intuited by you, would find you, and that I, too, someday would. Only then, in the consequential aftermath of that immaculate marriage, could we, in hellish tandem, yield an abuse so refined they’d have to stamp a year on it.


Sean Kilpatrick, raised in Detroit, does monthly movie reviews for Hobart Literary Journal.Other writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Nerve, New York Tyrant, Boston Review, Fence, Sleepingfish, Fanzine, Vice, evergreen review, Whiskey Island, andBomb. His novella Sucker June, was released by Lazy Fascist Press. Check out his tumblr.