to miscarry love

The semantic and ontological prejudices of the mental health system have left me feeling alienated.
To survive I have had to become-ontologically bi-lingual.

But the question rarely asked as we try to survive him, is… will he survive us?

Because I kinda like him. Despite the differences.

The mental health practitioner, who for the most part ive had an anti-relationship with,
says “you have no ground”… if that is so then how I am still standing? Admittedly a little worse for ware, but standing none the less. To tolerate me he will have to loosen the fixity of his cosmos of cause and effect, and I don’t know my science but im pretty sure there currently abounds beautifully divergent metaphors in the fields of psychics that will help him with that (should he require permission). This is all assuming he wants to travel, because ive already decided I wont be slowing down and staying put.

Is the pathologized person here creating a path of salvation for the normie professional?
Well, yes. Radically self assured from encountering the marvellous, the at times excruciatingly painful marvellous, I haven’t got the patience to protest in defence of this ground he says does not exist. So seduction it is; sexy levitation. Im switching register and asking him “you wanna get out of here, smart-stuff?” with a wink wink lets go.

Oh, he said no?

It feels like a miscarriage, I lost him during synthesis.

All my favourite love songs turned out to be about heroin. And every time I fall it induces a psychosis. I need to transform love so it does not kill me, so I do not kill love.

Love is a given, a matter of fact. So the question of survival is: how do I love? How do I stylize myself into a conduit which can endure love and not be completely annihilated by it?

I wrote him a poem, it went like:

‘I am going to invent the next thing after vaporwave and come to shore, and with him invent other things too. Next thing after next thing.

I am going to tend to it discreetly like a bundle of yarn on my lap. I’ll have the appearance of knowing what im doing. Because something in me knows what i am doing even if i cannot explain its mechanics.

If i forget what im doing for a second, will he know what to do on my behalf?

Yes. He does. He knows what to do.

He’ll take the yarn and carry on that tending to and i’ll lie back and rest for a little while.

I didnt think id ever be able to close my eyes and trust a man with my ball of yarn.

But i did. And when i woke up, i loved him.’

But when I woke up again, the ball of yarn was shredded and dead! Worst of all, I didn’t know which of us had committed the crime. Had I slaughtered it in sleep?
Had it died after being pathologized as BPD?
Or did the borderline personality disorder kill it?
Please don’t tell me it was me!

The melancholic failure I feel at such a loss leaves me weak and tired. And I know I have just written the code of my killing in this text. The guilt of a miscarriage. To miscarry love.

But it was not all me. It was both of us. A mutual consent to kill with the denial of our salvation depending on the others salvation.

I will be very careful with my next ball of yarn, the yarn i gestate in me right at this very moment.