/lit/ - Literature

>>14092445 (cont.)

He's the only partner I never touched, because I wanted to get to know him better and valued the friendship too much to sell it out for cheap thrill. He was also modest and just... decent, and I admired him a lot. Instead of sending shivers down my spine, I for once felt happy picturing little versions of him running about in this world and thinking to myself that it would actually be pretty nice being part of that. When I pictured myself in a better future, strong and vigorous, I hoped that he would be there at my side to share in the glory. For the first time in my life, I pictured myself choking someone (him) and instead of feeling indifference or arousal, it weighed on me and I began questioning my degenerate ways.

Is this how a real friendship between two people was supposed to be, and I was missing out on this all my life? Did God love me enough to bring him to me? For the first time, I felt vulnerable. I felt pain, yearning, and grieving. I was frightened of death. In other words, I felt *alive*.
After he was gone, I found my other friendships to be pale compared to what I had with him, and there was always that disconnect from the world anyway thanks to gender dysphoria. I began losing interest in other people, I was tired of pretending and playing roles, trying to get by as a normal woman. So sick of it. My whole physical existence is a lie, a facade, and that is all I have. At least before, I was able to bear it and wax on about carrying my cross bla bla bla. I now spend my days keeping to myself, and living in my craft. I cringe and even get enraged when other men get interest in me. Sure, there's the high of power of being desired, but it's not the power I want. All I want to do is screw them and walk off, not even care to know their names (and god forbid they know me any better), but I can't do that anymore either. I see my ex's face in every beautiful man now.

Painting 1946 - Francis Bacon