Sometimes I wonder what I did to deserve you.
Why do you let the man who mutilated and humiliated you into your bed?
Why do you push me away and refuse when I try to show you affection?
The man I was back then is gone...
There is no more Custodian of the Prussian people...
There is only Gilbert Beilschmidt.
It's been weeks since we last truly held each other, and you don't even seem to notice. You walk around the house, wearing your stuffy little cravat and don't seem to notice how much I crave your attention. I want you to touch me, pet me, love me. But all I get from you is a curious glance and sudden scribblings of notes. Is that all I am to you? A little lab rat who is just an interesting addition to the house?
I voice my protest to being treated like this in the form of tiny gestures of my affection. I leave notes around the too-large house and give you hugs at random times and lure you to bed an hour early and cut into your rehearsals. Every time I try to show my appreciation for taking me in, you shut me out. You scowl and roll your eyes and stare at me with that god damned quirk of your eyebrow that's just.. fucking adorable.
Will that be all, Herr Beilschmidt?
Your words sting like the blade of a poisoned knife. I want to strangle you when you say them to me. I want to smack you and grab you by the shoulders and pull you in close and prove that I am not the lowly rat you think of me as. I am your boyfriend. I am supposed to be, anyway. I want you to return the affection I try to give you.
That stupid little curl on your head, I want to rip it out sometimes. It betrays you. When I managed to get you to pay attention to me, your face and your tone and your words say that you are bored, annoyed and tired, but that little curl quivers and trembles. When I kiss you and massage your sides and ravish your almost girlish figure, I want to see you react, not your curl. I want you to writhe and moan and kiss me back just as roughly. I want you to be a challenge, but not like this.
I want to know that you love me. I want you to say it in hushed whispers after the sun has long gone off to sleep beyond the horizon. I want you to say it loudly, yodel it on the mountains and scream it to the forest and city and the people of your Nation. I want you to say it in the middle of the afternoon, for no reason. Send me a text with those three little words when you take a break for your tea. I know you simply stand there and wait for the water to boil. Is it really that hard to pull out your phone and send a brief little message?
Am I asking too much of you? Is it entirely too much to ask you to forget the horrors of our past? I know we hardly got along as children, and it certainly did not get better as we aged on into adulthood. I am sorry, Liebling. I want to make it right. I want to hold you close and pretend that I can heal those centuries old scars with kisses and words.
Is it too much to ask that you let me replace the scars of old with new ones? I want to teach you the meaning of having a scarred body. You have given me plenty of bullets and lances. It's my turn to give you a bruise or two. I want to abuse you and make you mine. I want you to cry, to scream, to give everything to me because I deserve it.
I want you to punish me. I want you to add to the scars already on my body. I need you to show me that you can be just as powerful as anyone else, but stronger because you are more powerful than me. You hold in your hands a terrible power.
I have cried for you. I have hurt for you. I am desperate for you, and you give me nothing. I am losing my mind. Save me from this ultimate torture. No gulag or bullet wound or branding iron can hurt me as much as you do when you ignore me.
I want to be your everything, to be the sole thing you think about. Why am I behind your piano? The cat? The art of science? Are the people of Austria that much more important than me? Do you really have to toss me aside like this?
When I finally put you to bed, pull from you anguished cries of pleasure and love, you never return the gesture. I want you to rise against me, Roderich. I want you to prove to me that which I already know: You are not weak. Your mind is strong and cunning. You pull from me, from neighbors and the people what you want, then disappear into your own little world of fantasy and mystique.
Let me follow you. I want to see what lies behind your violet gaze and bored expression. What does entertain the calm and angry Austria? I see in your nation athletes and scholars and laughing children with smiles and love to share. I see doctors and teachers and mothers who give their embrace and well wishes to strangers and friends alike. How are they you?
Tell me, please, I am begging you, Roderich- where is the love?
Did I steal it from you in Silesia? Was your heart everything you needed to say I love you? Can I get it back to you? Can I make you a new one? Do I have to beat the phrase into you with a million kisses and a thousand hugs and a trillion fucks?
Will I live on into forever thinking that all I will ever get from you is the occasional approving nod and sweet cake? You give those to my brother. You give them to your ex-wife. You give them to those you don't like. What do I get from you that is special?
Sex?
That's not what I want from you, Roderich.
Just say it.
Three little words.
That's all I want.
I love you, Gilbert. You are a fool to think that I do not.