| Mar. 6th, 2010 @ 10:36 am because you were a liar. |
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Arm-in-arm (not hand-in-hand), we continued onward, getting nowhere other than the front steps with the rumbling cars hurrying by, full of importance. A few scattered stars poked out (if you remember, I always check), and I remembered the smell of stretching, endless, fields of grass and passing them in the night, side-by-side as everything was untouchable, half asleep, half-awake as NY Batteri lulled me to sleep, that familiar feeling of your fingers grasping mine, fireworks replaying in my mind. Yes, untouchable, free, but never, not once, reality. I held my breath, waiting. If we went back inside, it was over, the world was falling apart, scattering to ruin and in your selfishness, your new found independence where you would find yourself in the arms, on the lips, in the very curves of another girl's body, on the neck of a bottle, you refused to save it for me. It was then, I understood betrayal, the kind that is done not knowingly but with every intention, or perhaps just with fear. I sat beside you in that dirty white van, and wanted nothing more than to vomit every where with your attempts at talking, at forging the most toxic of friendship, as I watched your lips move and for once didn't know where they had been, had not a single idea of the treacherous things that spewed forth from them, so I stared straight ahead at that brick wall and concentrated on not covering us and the mess in bile and salty water and convinced myself that you were going to kill me. Every quiet second and half-hearted response, that far off look in your eye that you only got when you would try not to cry but still thinking the things that would force you to do so, was going to kill me, every time you spoke of some nonexistent future and who knows what will happen, I don't want to hurt you syllable, killing me - the cold indifference, the fact that your heart was still whole and you used it to turn mine to pulp. Dead. So I made promises ("Things will sort themselves out; I hope... and in the end I hope I'll end up with you.. and none of these things right now will even matter...I'm sorry for all the shit I've ever put you through... I'll care for you forever; you shouldn't be questioning that.."), unfounded and immature, swore and tried to believe in God, anything to bring you back, to meet again and know that everything was going to be the way it was 'supposed' to be, forced myself to have faith in yours as well (or how, at least seeing me all those times made me happier than I know, or how you didn't know what you wanted to do with yourself anymore), and keep myself as a functioning unit as you set out to find yourself, and what made you not your parents. At any moment I would be there with open arms to keep the world at bay, to keep the others out, to keep you selfishly mine, akin to letting the scabs encompassing my heart be ripped off as you poured salt in and told me beautiful things, of how if things felt right it would always be okay. Your pretty words, your sleep tousled hair in my lap before you drove away, leaving me to (again) pray that you'd be back, but knowing that was the real end, or at least that you felt bad, felt horrible, felt something. So I proclaimed myself dead, made fake attempts at connecting with another, to feel something that came close to whatever the pristine, lie of 'us' was. Nothing, not one, not anything came near the heart of that.
And in the moment I stopped looking, I have been resurrected. Life has been pushed into my decomposing, stale, cynical veins and laughter made in my throat, and I can place my hands around those of another, a singular one, and know that I am home. And know that everything that came before was nothing real in comparison to this. I could sing of my rebirth and truest of emotions from rooftops, but in keeping it to myself I have the greatest of secrets, shared.
But, although not regretfully, I lied too. I wouldn't let you come back, and I wouldn't be waiting. That ghost is dead. Thankfully. |
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