Never forget where you came from.
Journal entry... November 2011
You remember this love. The love of his clean white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and your hand on his chest, cupped over his heart as you dance slow, catching the flutter of his pulse in your palm. Eyes closed with your head resting on his shoulder with his fingers leading you from the hollow between your shoulderblades. The long moment where he let you go as you spun, your hand dropping, catching, holding, without needing to see. You remember the sweetness of the curve of his neck, the love in his lips, his unfinished smile. You never knew how soft his kisses were until you kissed another; his undemanding, unassuming. Suddenly, you are worldly, and appreciate his smooth skin, his brown-sugar fine hair which brushes his nape when it grows out. The way you slept next to him every night, falling into his strength and hollows, breathing the same air, and the hours inbetween, watching him dream and hushing his nightmares. The love in holding your two fingers to his wrist as he slept, counting the steady beats of his heart, memorizing, willing your own stuttering, stammering heart to listen to his. His narrow shoulders which carry the weight of the world, carried you so far, the shoulders you used to rub soothing circles into because it was a reason to touch him. The shoulders you neglected for the last six months, too selfish to take the time to ease the knots out of.
No wonder he is full of bitterness and bruises, breathless and tired from running in circles for you. He tells you that he feels like a puppet and you are jerking the strings, jerking him around to your whims. You tell him to do what he needs and not to care so much, worry so much, about you.
So you invite in a stranger, and your love shuts the door, throws the bolt. It's what he needs.
You wrap your arms around yourself and squeeze hard, holding on for dear life, holding yourself still so you will stop drinking, stop taking pills, and stop from trying to forget, since this is a lesson you cannot sleep away.
You remember the love overflowing from your eyes at the store, giddy, looking at pots. Pans. Vaccums. Things to fill your house with him with. Surprises for him every day, cooking dinner every night. You remember wanting to be disgusted with how happy you were, but being too delighted to care. Cleaning in high heels, dancing to records as noodles boiled on the stove, wondering if it was possible, or right, for you to have such a languid contentedness settling into your bones. You were sly with your joy, you didn't want to spill it like a glass of water over your friends and family and have none left for yourself. You bit your lip, held it back.
Now you wonder why. Why you were not frank with your feelings. Maybe it was your friendship with Her, how she played your love against you at every turn, so you sequestered it away. You spent so many nights, wrecked and helpless. Wasn't it March when you jerked back from him like an anemonie? You pulled your affection back, because you didn't want it to hurt you, but now are you any better off?
Why did you do it? Because you were sure, but not sure. Because the other man was so different that you thought it would make you different. Because you a human, and young, and beautiful, which makes it easy. Because you are learning not to hate your body and you wanted to know what it felt like with hands which were not unconditional in their tenderness. To see if all men are dangerous.
Because you couldn't be sure. Not until he looked at you like you'd kicked him, shattered the vulnerability you've aslways loved, and you had to confess. Not until the days ticked past and missing him dug in fiercely. You didn't know if you could be happy with him. That sliver was there, the part that told you that wildness was better than the curve of his arm around your waist, his kisses dipping low down your spine. You had doubts.
Regrets.
You spend less time crying and more reflecting. You would still not know, if not for the time with the other man. You would still have hisses licking the back of,your skull, warning you of missed chances. You stopped being devoted out of fear for your adventurous youth. Now, you are still scared, scared like smoke in your air, but it's different. Scared you have learned too late. Scared that you will actually love this man forever, that you may actually grow old, start a family, quiet. After so long trying to die, you realize you want not just to live, but to live with this man. This boy. You want to wake up stretched out into the lines of his body, tell him your hopes, your dreams, stagger into the lands of health and sanity with him. Have him wash your make-up off your face with the heartbreaking gentlness which made you cry the first time because you didn't know a person could love you so much.
Fractured.
Analytical, you diagnose. The skeleton of your relationship has multiple breaks. The skin has been lacerated from sharp words, and your glare leveled at him from your defiant face. Contusions. Bloodloss. Heartbreak.
But coded. Not called. You check the charts. No DNR. Your love is open on the table, you are in the waiting room, praying it doesn't die, holding hands with your friends and family.
A waiting game.
You hope to god that you didn't realize exactly what this was to you only to watch it seize and fail. Only to have him brush past you on the way out of your life.
You think to yourself, "Okay, God, here's your chance. Show me, and I'll try. You owe me this much. Help me now."
These are the longest nights.
You remember this love. The love of his clean white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and your hand on his chest, cupped over his heart as you dance slow, catching the flutter of his pulse in your palm. Eyes closed with your head resting on his shoulder with his fingers leading you from the hollow between your shoulderblades. The long moment where he let you go as you spun, your hand dropping, catching, holding, without needing to see. You remember the sweetness of the curve of his neck, the love in his lips, his unfinished smile. You never knew how soft his kisses were until you kissed another; his undemanding, unassuming. Suddenly, you are worldly, and appreciate his smooth skin, his brown-sugar fine hair which brushes his nape when it grows out. The way you slept next to him every night, falling into his strength and hollows, breathing the same air, and the hours inbetween, watching him dream and hushing his nightmares. The love in holding your two fingers to his wrist as he slept, counting the steady beats of his heart, memorizing, willing your own stuttering, stammering heart to listen to his. His narrow shoulders which carry the weight of the world, carried you so far, the shoulders you used to rub soothing circles into because it was a reason to touch him. The shoulders you neglected for the last six months, too selfish to take the time to ease the knots out of.
No wonder he is full of bitterness and bruises, breathless and tired from running in circles for you. He tells you that he feels like a puppet and you are jerking the strings, jerking him around to your whims. You tell him to do what he needs and not to care so much, worry so much, about you.
So you invite in a stranger, and your love shuts the door, throws the bolt. It's what he needs.
You wrap your arms around yourself and squeeze hard, holding on for dear life, holding yourself still so you will stop drinking, stop taking pills, and stop from trying to forget, since this is a lesson you cannot sleep away.
You remember the love overflowing from your eyes at the store, giddy, looking at pots. Pans. Vaccums. Things to fill your house with him with. Surprises for him every day, cooking dinner every night. You remember wanting to be disgusted with how happy you were, but being too delighted to care. Cleaning in high heels, dancing to records as noodles boiled on the stove, wondering if it was possible, or right, for you to have such a languid contentedness settling into your bones. You were sly with your joy, you didn't want to spill it like a glass of water over your friends and family and have none left for yourself. You bit your lip, held it back.
Now you wonder why. Why you were not frank with your feelings. Maybe it was your friendship with Her, how she played your love against you at every turn, so you sequestered it away. You spent so many nights, wrecked and helpless. Wasn't it March when you jerked back from him like an anemonie? You pulled your affection back, because you didn't want it to hurt you, but now are you any better off?
Why did you do it? Because you were sure, but not sure. Because the other man was so different that you thought it would make you different. Because you a human, and young, and beautiful, which makes it easy. Because you are learning not to hate your body and you wanted to know what it felt like with hands which were not unconditional in their tenderness. To see if all men are dangerous.
Because you couldn't be sure. Not until he looked at you like you'd kicked him, shattered the vulnerability you've aslways loved, and you had to confess. Not until the days ticked past and missing him dug in fiercely. You didn't know if you could be happy with him. That sliver was there, the part that told you that wildness was better than the curve of his arm around your waist, his kisses dipping low down your spine. You had doubts.
Regrets.
You spend less time crying and more reflecting. You would still not know, if not for the time with the other man. You would still have hisses licking the back of,your skull, warning you of missed chances. You stopped being devoted out of fear for your adventurous youth. Now, you are still scared, scared like smoke in your air, but it's different. Scared you have learned too late. Scared that you will actually love this man forever, that you may actually grow old, start a family, quiet. After so long trying to die, you realize you want not just to live, but to live with this man. This boy. You want to wake up stretched out into the lines of his body, tell him your hopes, your dreams, stagger into the lands of health and sanity with him. Have him wash your make-up off your face with the heartbreaking gentlness which made you cry the first time because you didn't know a person could love you so much.
Fractured.
Analytical, you diagnose. The skeleton of your relationship has multiple breaks. The skin has been lacerated from sharp words, and your glare leveled at him from your defiant face. Contusions. Bloodloss. Heartbreak.
But coded. Not called. You check the charts. No DNR. Your love is open on the table, you are in the waiting room, praying it doesn't die, holding hands with your friends and family.
A waiting game.
You hope to god that you didn't realize exactly what this was to you only to watch it seize and fail. Only to have him brush past you on the way out of your life.
You think to yourself, "Okay, God, here's your chance. Show me, and I'll try. You owe me this much. Help me now."
These are the longest nights.