ROTGUT (ROTGUTVERSE)

by H.S. Wolfe

“You left my heart an open wound And I love you for-” —My Chemical Romance, 'This Is The Best Day Ever'

Diagnostic criteria of borderline personality disorder - A pervasive pattern of instability of interpersonal relationships, self-image and affects, and marked impulsivity beginning by early adulthood and present in a variety of contexts, as indicated by 5 (or more) of the following: A pattern of unstable and intense interpersonal relationships characterized by alternating between extremes of idealization and devaluation. Identity disturbance: markedly and persistently unstable self-image or sense of self. Impulsivity in at least 2 areas that are potentially self-damaging (e.g., spending, sex, substance abuse, reckless driving, binge eating). Note: Do not include suicidal or self-mutilating behaviour covered in criterion 5. Recurrent suicidal behaviour, gestures or threats, or self-mutilating behaviour. Affective instability due to a marked reactivity of mood (e.g., intense episodic dysphoria, irritability or anxiety usually lasting a few hours and only rarely more than a few days). Chronic feelings of emptiness. Inappropriate, intense anger or difficulty controlling anger (e.g., frequent displays of temper, constant anger, recurrent physical fights). Transient, stress-related paranoid ideation or severe dissociative symptoms. —American Psychiatric Association, 'Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Fourth Edition, Text Revision'

his hard cock against my back. “Fuck, I missed you.” His voice is low, nearly a whine. You mean you missed my insides.

If he would let me, I’d crack open his chest, part his ribs so I could climb in, chew his arteries up and rearrange them into a nest for myself. I would crawl under his skin, a warm blanket for me while I burrow into his muscles. I’d hide behind his molars, or the crevice of his eye. Every gentle touch he affords me tonight reminds me that I’m hungry. Starving for so much I will never have. I settle for scraps thrown to the floor, picking bones clean.

At some point I went from surviving to just floating between my days like a ghost, my energy and executive function nowhere to be found. I’ll get around to organizing that bookshelf, I’ll get around to putting those boxes away, I’ll get around to it, I swear. Thinking about it makes me feel unwell.

Talking only works if someone will listen, and I’ve been yelling longer than I can remember.

It’s not my fault my childhood was garbage, or that my brain is wrong, or that I never learned how to be a good person.

My thoughts chase each other’s tails, dogs snapping at the end of their leashes at one another. I want out of my kennel, I want to bite and lash out.

Who are you really mad at? I’m mad at everyone, and especially mad at myself.

It would make sense, though, that it’s made its way between the layers of my body, wrapped around my bones and sank into the marrow. Years of being nasty putrefied me from the core out. One bad fruit, making the entire basket fester. The common factor in everyone who has been cruel to me, is me after all.

I don’t know why they keep grabbing for me when they know I can’t retract my thorns.

apart. The pain is unimaginable as he buries his arm up to the elbow inside of me, hand snaking its way up through my rib cage, pushing tissue and viscera out of his way, until he can grip the beating muscle of my heart. “You have it,” I sob, choking on the mucus in my throat. “You already have it, please just let me go.” I’m begging. He beams, squeezing it harder. Darkness takes me as I pass out.