The Joy of Cuddling

Sugar is gone. Just like all of the ones that came before. Once again I'm left with this gnawing emptiness. Some ponies would think it's guilt for what I've done and maybe to some extent they are correct but I'm uncertain. Relating to others has never been my strong suit.

I adopted the smiles, the fake goofiness, the bumble-fuck retardation that kept others from wanting to get close to me. I was their clown though I never wanted to be. Just make them laugh. All surface. Like a rubber ball. Inflated with nothing inside but air. A toy. Their toy to play with and forget once they have used me to their satisfaction.

Is that what love is? Using another? Controlling Others? Surely not… that's not how it is described in stories. But stories are lies to make others feel better. Is the love they profess a beautiful lie to cover what gives true gratification?

I don't think I'll ever know.

I have to pretend to be like them.

That's what I want so that they don't see the real me. The scared me. The one that doesn't understand them or their emotions to one another.

It's frightening to reveal yourself to another. To open your nature for inspection with all the rotten vines and veins that wrap your black papier mache heart. Especially when you can't feel the way they do. If they do.

What if we are all lying to each other? That I'm not alone with my glass grin and fragile farce of affection and the others are just as withdrawn and confused as I am.

I want to love. But how? The only seeking of my heart comes from the candy innards of their pinata bodies. Conversation means nothing. Embraces are graveyards of emotion. Even making love, that term for creating the feeling I so dearly desire, is as empty as the coffins they bury.

Watching their bright eyes dim. Seeing their thoughts through the windows to their soul as I remove their parts; that's the only connection I am ever able to make. Sharing their final moments and becoming romantic with what remains when their spirit departs fills me but, like a broken cup, I leak until there is nothing left but the knowledge that I have ruined another life.

For what, Pinkie? To feel for a few days the luster, the joy others claim to experience all the time? No… I think it's some gross approximation of love. Real love wouldn't be so cruelly obtained. At least that's what I pray.

I'm the problem, I think. There's something wrong with me. I hope so. Surely the others aren't like me. I don't want to think that. Whatever they feel is real, innocent. An innocence I can never understand with the things I've done in my pursuit for this tainted farce.

And yet, while I know I may be the broken piece, I can't stop. Like a Pandora's box I've opened, it cannot be undone. Not on this side of mortality but I cannot bring myself to end my own life. I want to live. I want to love.

I pray one day I may find the strength to send myself through the chimney of my oven as I've sent others. The pain of my body burning away would be a fitting punishment for the malignancy in me. For my hubris in my Frankenstein love.

And though I know it cannot be true, I crave that tortured love I have created because the feeling it gives me is real. No matter how twisted and wrong, I can feel it.

The feeling is like an addiction. A scourge that I cannot shake. Ever since I first felt it coursing through my veins, stirring the dead lump in my chest, I've needed it. I can fight it for a while but I can't control myself when I get so lonely.

Love.

What a bitch.