Waltz with me

Beneath the trees

Of plum

And burnished gold

I love you more

Than all the leaves

That swirl beneath our feet

My previous post, Questions, was inspired by the posts of a rising star on this site—a star whose literary "creations" are being celebrated as par excellence. Their posts are also, almost certainly, all or mostly generated by AI. Many of their comments and replies to comments are also from AI.

Questions was generated by ChatGPT and posted unedited, except for the title, which I added. I'll let you all discover the rising star for yourselves, assuming you're interested. Just look for posts that have a similar structure and style as Questions: enchanting, magical, verbose, and a little too sweet. Other telltale signs include liberal use of the word 'whisper' and overly optimistic endings. Think of Questions as your benchmark.

Some of you have been gushing over this rising star's posts so much I thought I was gonna barf on my laptop. I couldn't fucking take any more. Don't get me wrong; I think AI is great. I've worked with it as a developer and in real life. And FWIW, I get that y'all want to be artists and not think about AI. Don't be left behind. AI holds many benefits to you if you learn to use it. But don't be duped by some shithead's AI-generated posts.

10/24/2024

I wish I knew what healthy love looked like.

Because growing up,

I was never given a good example of it.

The idea of fighting with a significant other makes me physically sick,

because I hate the idea that if I made things inconvenient,

they would just leave.

Yet, I fight with my family all the time.

Maybe it's because I know that they will never leave.

I just want to know what healthy love is,

what it looks like to actually have someone interested in you

and not just because they want to get into my pants.

I will never forget the feeling of giving in

and letting him have what he desperately wanted

only for him to completely lose interest in me.

And it almost broke me,

and there are still days that I feel like the idea of that will completely shatter me to bits.

I just hope to find a love

so unconditional and so wonderful

that all that pain will go away

and I can once again feel whole

in the arms of another.

Touch starved, craving the

Warmth of another,

Holding hands would calm

The aching desire.

My body, pins and needles,

Itching to be held.

Set me on fire.

He really liked my writing, actually. He was fascinated with my words. He had an uncanny ability to memorize any passage of literature no matter how large it was. He read every poem, short story, and even edited my first novel. I guess he thought it would impress me if he could quote my own words back at me. I found it awkward. At first, I really enjoyed it. He was more enthusiastic to read my work than any friend, romantic or otherwise, had ever been. But it changed. He started asking me if I'd written anything. If I had, he just absolutely had to get his hands on it. I'd always said my writing was a part of me. Quoting my words back to me, he said he just wanted to get to know me.

I know lying is wrong, but when he asked if I had created anything recently, no matter what had flowed onto the page, I said no. I preferred to volunteer pieces for his consumption and criticism. It worked for a little while. I could relax and write whatever I wanted to. My therapist recommended journaling and even gave me a composition book to use.

In my free time, I often used the journal. I hadn't handwritten much in a while, but it was even more cathartic than my keyboard. He caught me one time, writing an entry with a poem and a drawing of a bird tacked onto the bottom.

He asked to see it, and when I refused, it was like a cold breeze blew into the room. His entire demeanor changed. It darkened in a physical way that I'd never experienced from him before. "Are you hiding something from me?"

Naive as I was, I found no other argument to prove my innocence than to hand over the entry. And to my deepening horror, he flipped open to the first page. Any protest that the words in there were private, were hushed and waved away as if I were just a fly. I told him that I couldn't watch him read it in front of me and I let him take it home.

I wish I could go back to that moment sometimes and dump him right there on the spot. He claimed a relationship was built on trust, and if I didn't trust him, then we couldn't be together. But I could have done two things: first, I could have said, alright, then I don't trust you and we would have ended. Second, I could have accused him of not trusting me. But I was so afraid of losing him, of losing someone who cared about me, that I let him walk all over me.

I stopped writing.

I lied to my therapist about the journal.

I attempted a few soulless poems. Though likely some of my prettiest verses, all for him, I've since deleted them.

He thanked me for my openness with the journal when he gave it back to me. I still have the journal. I never filled in the last twenty pages or so, even though I had wanted, originally, to complete the entire thing like a physical copy of my memories, my emotions, and my ponderings. I haven't ever gone back to read it, despite the memory lapses, for there was more than just the manipulation. I don't keep it to remind myself of the pain and stupidity of that year and a half. I keep it to remind myself that I won't be naive or allow myself to be smothered. I keep it to remind myself to keep writing. Not for him, not for my friends, not for my family, not even for my husband who I'm completely enamored with. I keep writing for myself.