Dear Michael, Love Crack Whore
The last time I wrote you a note,
I called you a poser.
That wasn’t my intention though...
I don’t think anyway.
I don’t remember,
it all feels so long ago.
Typing you a note seems like I planned this out or something,
but I was sitting here and I needed to get this out.
Who knows if I’ll ever hit the print button?
Who knows if I’ll ever fold it,
if it will ever leave my room, my desk?
Who knows if I’ll ever put your name on it,
and it will just be this piece of paper filled with words to no one,
because there’s no name to distinguish weather you get it or the next person?
What makes you so different from the next person?
How did things end up like this?
I wish we could have been friends at least…
But I guess it’s best this way.
There is no way we could be friends and not want more,
or have something happen,
weather I started it or you.
You and I were always messed up-
you and I. That’s a thought, you and I.
Me and you. That implies couple-ness, does it not?
You and I were never a couple.
Never anything more than Marcus* and Becca,
as two separate people.
Oh there. You’re name. Now on the paper.
So now who ever stumbles upon this,
when I drop it on the ground at school or you do,
or someone picks it up off my desk,
or goes through my files on the computer.
They now all know it is you,
not that it makes a difference to any one but you and me and maybe Len*.
Len… My boyfriend.
My boyfriend of two months.
Two months and four days.
He doesn’t wear band shirts and his pants fit,
he gets good grades and is in honors classes,
he never does anything wrong,
except for the one shot at getting high
that comes with your teenage years and he didn’t like it.
He doesn’t “condone” my “bad behavior”
(twenty-minute detention for calling a kid an Idiot and skipping math.
That’s the day I was in your lunch.
And I saw the way you looked at me,
both times that day.
Do you think I don’t notice these things?
Do you think I don’t know you?
I know you Marcus.
I know you and you know me and we can’t get around that.)
He knows Michelle Branch songs by heart
and he got a harmonica for Christmas and loves to play Monopoly.
He drives so carefully and won’t start the car unless you’re buckled in.
I’m surprised he swears.
He’s not a very good kisser either.
But you want to know something?
He cared. He cares enough to be there,
he cares enough to lie to make me feel better.
He cares enough to be.
He told me he loved me.
I got so scared I didn’t know what to say,
what to do.
I’m not used to people loving me,
caring.
I’m used to you, being pushed around and hurt.
Being lied too.
Having someone care was like…
New. Different. Weird. Scary.
He gets jealous of people who aren’t even “real.”
But he doesn’t hurt me,
like you did. Like you do.
He lied about the I love you.
Or at least that’s what he says.
I guess it doesn’t matter either way.
I don’t love him.
Tell you something… You said “yes.”
That last night, the last time we talked, on the phone.
When I called you and hung up right after your answer?
I played that game with Len a few days ago, the “Yes or no?” game.
He said no- because no is two letters and yes is three.
Because he was lazy.
“No” is the kind of lazy answer I would expect from you, Marcus.
I think that says a lot right there.
The fact that you said Yes at all,
no one says yes.
How do you know what you’re saying yes too?
You could have sold your sole to the devil.
You didn’t.
But you could have.
And when we kissed… I missed Marcus.
I hadn’t kissed anyone in a year and I closed my eyes halfway there.
I missed.
I was 10% lips, 90% chin-
if any lip at all. And you still wanted more.
You held onto me for three whole songs.
I know you Marcus, you say no, you push me away.
You have never held on,
when you had so many chances to let go.
So why didn’t you let go Marcus?
And why do I get to be blamed for all this?
Why does all this get to be my fault?
Because if you want to play this game-
you talked to me first.
You started it all- and what was your reasoning?
Oh yes, you wanted to get in my pants.
Funny thing my pants.
I believe in my last note I also told you,
you don’t need you’re stupid games to get in them-
they were always there.
Fly unzipped and everything.
I’m surprised you walked away, Marcus.
I really was. I know you have a heart in there somewhere,
but I didn’t think that would play a role in you getting some.
So somewhere in there you are real-
and I knew this.
I just want you to TELL ME THIS.
I want you to DROP THIS ACT
I want you to stop wearing the Eric pants-
and, oh, I see you cut your hair again.
Honey, you’re not Eric.
And I’m not trying to call you a poser now,
I’m trying to call you Marcus.
Although, it gets hard.
God knows, by now
(now in your “reading the note” time,
not my “writing the note” time)
Eric already knows about this.
You’re both talking about it.
I wonder if you tell him the truth,
or do you lie to everyone, Marcus?
How much do people care about you
if they’ve known you forever and still don’t know when you’re lying?
How much do you care about them if you still lie?
Although I guess that makes a difference,
depending on the situation.
I don’t know what the point of all this is,
what I’m trying to get at here.
Maybe it’s just that I’m gone Marcus.
I’m not coming back to you.
You can try coming to me,
we’ll see how that goes,
but I doubt you will.
Why would you-
I mean nothing, right?
I’m just another girl,
one more two-second fling,
one more kiss goodnight.
I hope you’re happy like that,
and something tells me you’re not.
Maybe it was the sad way you looked at me Friday-
stared, watched… I don’t think “looked” was the right word-
at the end of your lunch and after seventh.
If you’re their everyday,
eventually she’s going to notice you watching me,
that girl you’re always talking too-
oh so interested in it seems.
Keep those sad blue eyes for the next girl stupid enough to fall in love;
maybe you’ll treat that one right.
**note to micheal. never gave it to him. never will i imagin. i dont know how much you can relate to it. oh well.**
I called you a poser.
That wasn’t my intention though...
I don’t think anyway.
I don’t remember,
it all feels so long ago.
Typing you a note seems like I planned this out or something,
but I was sitting here and I needed to get this out.
Who knows if I’ll ever hit the print button?
Who knows if I’ll ever fold it,
if it will ever leave my room, my desk?
Who knows if I’ll ever put your name on it,
and it will just be this piece of paper filled with words to no one,
because there’s no name to distinguish weather you get it or the next person?
What makes you so different from the next person?
How did things end up like this?
I wish we could have been friends at least…
But I guess it’s best this way.
There is no way we could be friends and not want more,
or have something happen,
weather I started it or you.
You and I were always messed up-
you and I. That’s a thought, you and I.
Me and you. That implies couple-ness, does it not?
You and I were never a couple.
Never anything more than Marcus* and Becca,
as two separate people.
Oh there. You’re name. Now on the paper.
So now who ever stumbles upon this,
when I drop it on the ground at school or you do,
or someone picks it up off my desk,
or goes through my files on the computer.
They now all know it is you,
not that it makes a difference to any one but you and me and maybe Len*.
Len… My boyfriend.
My boyfriend of two months.
Two months and four days.
He doesn’t wear band shirts and his pants fit,
he gets good grades and is in honors classes,
he never does anything wrong,
except for the one shot at getting high
that comes with your teenage years and he didn’t like it.
He doesn’t “condone” my “bad behavior”
(twenty-minute detention for calling a kid an Idiot and skipping math.
That’s the day I was in your lunch.
And I saw the way you looked at me,
both times that day.
Do you think I don’t notice these things?
Do you think I don’t know you?
I know you Marcus.
I know you and you know me and we can’t get around that.)
He knows Michelle Branch songs by heart
and he got a harmonica for Christmas and loves to play Monopoly.
He drives so carefully and won’t start the car unless you’re buckled in.
I’m surprised he swears.
He’s not a very good kisser either.
But you want to know something?
He cared. He cares enough to be there,
he cares enough to lie to make me feel better.
He cares enough to be.
He told me he loved me.
I got so scared I didn’t know what to say,
what to do.
I’m not used to people loving me,
caring.
I’m used to you, being pushed around and hurt.
Being lied too.
Having someone care was like…
New. Different. Weird. Scary.
He gets jealous of people who aren’t even “real.”
But he doesn’t hurt me,
like you did. Like you do.
He lied about the I love you.
Or at least that’s what he says.
I guess it doesn’t matter either way.
I don’t love him.
Tell you something… You said “yes.”
That last night, the last time we talked, on the phone.
When I called you and hung up right after your answer?
I played that game with Len a few days ago, the “Yes or no?” game.
He said no- because no is two letters and yes is three.
Because he was lazy.
“No” is the kind of lazy answer I would expect from you, Marcus.
I think that says a lot right there.
The fact that you said Yes at all,
no one says yes.
How do you know what you’re saying yes too?
You could have sold your sole to the devil.
You didn’t.
But you could have.
And when we kissed… I missed Marcus.
I hadn’t kissed anyone in a year and I closed my eyes halfway there.
I missed.
I was 10% lips, 90% chin-
if any lip at all. And you still wanted more.
You held onto me for three whole songs.
I know you Marcus, you say no, you push me away.
You have never held on,
when you had so many chances to let go.
So why didn’t you let go Marcus?
And why do I get to be blamed for all this?
Why does all this get to be my fault?
Because if you want to play this game-
you talked to me first.
You started it all- and what was your reasoning?
Oh yes, you wanted to get in my pants.
Funny thing my pants.
I believe in my last note I also told you,
you don’t need you’re stupid games to get in them-
they were always there.
Fly unzipped and everything.
I’m surprised you walked away, Marcus.
I really was. I know you have a heart in there somewhere,
but I didn’t think that would play a role in you getting some.
So somewhere in there you are real-
and I knew this.
I just want you to TELL ME THIS.
I want you to DROP THIS ACT
I want you to stop wearing the Eric pants-
and, oh, I see you cut your hair again.
Honey, you’re not Eric.
And I’m not trying to call you a poser now,
I’m trying to call you Marcus.
Although, it gets hard.
God knows, by now
(now in your “reading the note” time,
not my “writing the note” time)
Eric already knows about this.
You’re both talking about it.
I wonder if you tell him the truth,
or do you lie to everyone, Marcus?
How much do people care about you
if they’ve known you forever and still don’t know when you’re lying?
How much do you care about them if you still lie?
Although I guess that makes a difference,
depending on the situation.
I don’t know what the point of all this is,
what I’m trying to get at here.
Maybe it’s just that I’m gone Marcus.
I’m not coming back to you.
You can try coming to me,
we’ll see how that goes,
but I doubt you will.
Why would you-
I mean nothing, right?
I’m just another girl,
one more two-second fling,
one more kiss goodnight.
I hope you’re happy like that,
and something tells me you’re not.
Maybe it was the sad way you looked at me Friday-
stared, watched… I don’t think “looked” was the right word-
at the end of your lunch and after seventh.
If you’re their everyday,
eventually she’s going to notice you watching me,
that girl you’re always talking too-
oh so interested in it seems.
Keep those sad blue eyes for the next girl stupid enough to fall in love;
maybe you’ll treat that one right.
**note to micheal. never gave it to him. never will i imagin. i dont know how much you can relate to it. oh well.**