207. I thought about making this an LJSecret, but I've decided to embrace vulnerability.
We named our babies. We built a house, occupied it in each other's minds. You thought your name sounded good with mine. Do you remember, how much it hurt me? That it took you three years to tell me I had been spelling your name wrong all along? That might have been the end -- when I learned how to spell your name, our situation. When the verb became a noun.
You know, I was wrong. I always thought I was so good, all the pain just rained down on us, clouds swept our sky and there was no one to warn us. I always believed in my love for you, that when I loved you, I loved you well. Can't you remember that I was young? I loved you, but you were never there to put your arm around me.
Here I am, three years later, still blaming you. For my mistakes. For seeking love in those I could touch. You were always there to take me back, weren't you? When I came running back, battered, maybe a few pounds lighter, maybe weighed down a little by self-indulgence, self-infliction.
We'd go months without talking. Then, eight-one-five, I'd dial. And it was home again. I was always welcome home.
And then I wasn't. I kept forgetting to come home. And that was okay with me. I pushed you into the back corner of my mind, and I didn't even realize it.
That was three years ago. And I haven't thought of you since. I haven't thought about your pretty new girlfriend. You haven't thought of my pretty new engagement ring. Until now. Now, when my mind is screaming for some normalcy, something I know, something I can remember, the smell of the nighttime when we stayed up for hours together, best friends and lovers. Before we ran out of things to talk about. Before my freedom tightened in my chest and was expelled from my lungs and was lost in the Carolinian air with cigarette smoke and panic.
I've been trying to figure out why I haven't been welcomed back into your arms. Doesn't that poem mean anything to you? And then I remember, it's 2010 and I lost you long ago.
This is what I know now: You were the one with all the love to give. I was the one who was willing to take it for all it was worth, sucking you of every ounce and leaving you with the smell of another on my skin. That is my secret. I know. And I'm sorry.
You know, I was wrong. I always thought I was so good, all the pain just rained down on us, clouds swept our sky and there was no one to warn us. I always believed in my love for you, that when I loved you, I loved you well. Can't you remember that I was young? I loved you, but you were never there to put your arm around me.
Here I am, three years later, still blaming you. For my mistakes. For seeking love in those I could touch. You were always there to take me back, weren't you? When I came running back, battered, maybe a few pounds lighter, maybe weighed down a little by self-indulgence, self-infliction.
We'd go months without talking. Then, eight-one-five, I'd dial. And it was home again. I was always welcome home.
And then I wasn't. I kept forgetting to come home. And that was okay with me. I pushed you into the back corner of my mind, and I didn't even realize it.
That was three years ago. And I haven't thought of you since. I haven't thought about your pretty new girlfriend. You haven't thought of my pretty new engagement ring. Until now. Now, when my mind is screaming for some normalcy, something I know, something I can remember, the smell of the nighttime when we stayed up for hours together, best friends and lovers. Before we ran out of things to talk about. Before my freedom tightened in my chest and was expelled from my lungs and was lost in the Carolinian air with cigarette smoke and panic.
I've been trying to figure out why I haven't been welcomed back into your arms. Doesn't that poem mean anything to you? And then I remember, it's 2010 and I lost you long ago.
This is what I know now: You were the one with all the love to give. I was the one who was willing to take it for all it was worth, sucking you of every ounce and leaving you with the smell of another on my skin. That is my secret. I know. And I'm sorry.