Porn and Sadness and Suicide

Since starting this "blog" I have been trying to write
only when energized so as to hit the marks.

Thinking about suicide, or dying in general, does
not fatten any energetic tonal possibilities.

But it is something I do fleetingly throughout
the day. I think about it and how tired I am of
living and how sad I am that I feel nothing right
now which leads me where.

I know that I love my man. I know that feeling
is somewhere in some soular closet smothered
under my hats and socks. And that feeling is the
one that leaves me open and red and completely
vulnerable. He has been doing what he can to
close that space up. I think that it is too much for him.

We see only the beautiful things in ourselves when someone
looks at us with that golden massive glow of love and acceptance.

If you don't love yourself, how can you accept that
love? My man thinks it is not a good idea to love
oneself. This is a cultural difference.

I don't like porn. It makes me feel out of control and drugged
and I don't want my man looking at other women and getting off.

When I was back in the US he used it.
This is so disappointing to me and so deadening.

But what frustrates me is that he says he is not jealous,
or he tries to play it off like that, and really it may be because
I have never given him reason to be jealous. And, frankly,
maybe I should. Maybe I should make him feel how I
feel when I think of him jacking off to the images of
someone else.

It would be so very simple and easy.
Regardless of the dust I can be quite beautiful sometimes.
Although when I was a model, that was when I got the
least amount of men.

But I am starting to not give a fuck.
I'm leaving behind even being sad.

So I'm listening to Girlyman.