The One Who Despises

georgia bowan

Then:

On my days off from jerking my brain to create mish-mash stories for strangers, I am thinking about slimming down the flesh around my wrists and ankles.

All the way down, until you can see the pulsating veins potrude. This was my big fear as a kid. I hated seeing the blue and red, was scared my body would ‘betray me’ and implode. At the time, all I did was recoil and crack all the bones in my arms: shoulder, elbow and wrists before bed. One of my parents would lie in the lower bunk-bed with me, until finally, I could fall asleep after that. And, as I slipped into hypogonia, I asked them the same question every night.

“Dad, what’s your favourite colour?”

*sleepily* “It’s Blue. Sleep now.”

“What’s your favourite colour, Ma?”

*wide awake* “Red. Shh.”

Somehwere in between my sleep and questions, they slipped away to my brother’s bed, and then their own. I appreciate that now, now, now-

Now:

On my days off from jerking my brain to create mish-mash stories for strangers, I jerk my cock until I come to the most manly and sexually aspealing mirage in the heat of the desert/moment.

This helps me understand man.

The mirage: two black guys are ass fucking a drug addled teenager. Or maybe a 2B pencil is inserted into a lover’s ass to make him cum. Or pearly-white-nurhwal flesh and dead-cold meat in Antratica, roasting slowly on the spit. I try to think of the most foul mirage. My mother says that even the most trusting men in our lives hard-en for some of these things. She says it as she drinks her Riesling in a fancy New York bar at 3:24 am. I think she’s crying now because she’s hormonally retarded (loves me), so I put my hand on her shoulder in sympathy (I love her too).

“I’m sorry, Ma” I say.

She pushes me away roughly, tells me to Fuck Off and wipes away the black sludge.

So, I’m no good at this stuff, I sip with her instead. Nothing else does it anymore for love. It all desenstises and turns into a grey, luke warm, custardeised milk. I love to write, greviously. So much so, that I block the light out.

“George, you know I love your writing.” She manages “I need to not read it alone, though. It makes me sad.”

This makes me so fucking furiously sad, I can’t even explain it to you.

Luckily, my writing is designed to be read in sections.

Then:

Someone unimportant asked me why I write about myself in such dergogertory terms and circumstances. I was hurt. They said I spoke about myself like I wanted to maul myself. This is how I know most people don’t understand my wanky words in proper retrospect. I know this person (unimporant) is careless to my wellbeing, alas, they were intrigued as to why I write about the things I do. The interesting thing is, I never viewed my memoirs as a portrait of The One Who Despises. I alwasy viewed it with vigour, gravness, certainty. I never viewed myself as The One Who Despises. I am A Feeler, is all. I am not the The One Who-

Now:

On the day X fucked her, I heard it echo right through the walls.

I mean it. There was no volume of music that could blur out the sound of her long silky hair falling over her shoulder as she was getting him off (slip, whoosh). No amount of music could stop the sound of his mouth mashing against her mouth (slip, slop). And now, all these years later, I lie here beside ya. I still feel the same after it all. But I am so not The One Who Derspises, I am not The One Who Desp-.

On the day X fucked me, I became sort of bisected. I wrote this, actually:

“I think us, harm I think, us. Normality and softness.”

On my days off from jerking my brain to create mish-mash stories for strangers, I did something bad and I swallowed an entire pip. It was the pip from a plum located in the back of my fridge, finally ripened due to time and excersion. On my days off from jerking my brain until yellow stuff came out, I treated the soil (people) I grew inside, like asshole-leaking-shit. I split the pip with dagger-teeth-canines. I know I cannot change proper, but I pray I will never be The One Who Despises. I think I’m a writer but, really, I am not. I think I am a lover but, I can’t. I shall only be the The One Who Despises, The One Who Despises, The One Who Desp-