Oh my god.
Last night I was losing my mind. I laughed at everything, either because the whole world really was funny, or because the whole world sometimes just has to be funny to keep you from crumbling.
I talked to someone online about all my bullshit about this breakup.
I sat alone for a long time. I tried to find someone else to talk to. Someone that wasn't you, or even remotely reminiscent of you.
I went out. I had a huge, long talk with another someone about...everything, really.
I came home. I was all messed up. I had a huge fight with yet another someone.
I cried. I tried again to accept the things that are
I fell asleep sometime past 6am. Maybe past 8am, to tell the truth.
I had a dream. A dream that will never come true. A dream whose potential to come true has long since passed. Years ago. Before love.
I woke up. And just like every morning, I opened my eyes and remembered where I really am. Who I really am. Who is here and who is not. I open my eyes and try to see light, try to stare into until it burns, but can only see all the mistakes we ever made, and all the things we could have done to stop them, and all the ways we realized that and let it go by.
I got up. I made small talk. I put on the brave face that isn't really a brave face because the eyes are always too wet and the throat is always too dry.
And I walked around the house, through my day and through the nagging knowledge that you don't care.
That you can stare right into the light because it's all you've wanted.
That it doesn't matter that I'm not there. I am only the refreshingly blank space in the corner that now doesn't bother you anymore. Doesn't hurt you anymore.
You are here, even when you are physically and emotionally more distant than I ever thought possible. Your hands are still wrapped around my waist. Your lips are still on my neck. Your body is still imprinted on the insides of my eyelids. We still breathe the same air. Your voice is still down deep in my ears, ringing. There are bruises in the shape of your fingers all over me, and they aren't going away.
I hate you for it.
I hate myself for it.
I hate the past three years because they still mean something to me. They still fucking mean something.
We are still in that train station, my bags on the floor and our lips touching for the first time. I am still in that train station bathroom, crying in front of twenty strangers waiting in line because I just felt love for the first time. We are still sitting on the sidewalk waiting for friends while a tear falls from your eye onto my hand. I still don't wipe it off. I am still crying on your shoulder while we slow dance to Iris in the middle of the night. You are still seeing my hometown for the first time. We are still sitting at a show with your hand on my leg where the stockings meet the top of my thigh. We are still in the car in a dark parking lot. I am still escaping to Chicago for a month-aversary while my mom thinks I'm in class. I am still carrying a box of Valentine's Day presents on the train trying not to smash the bow. We are still living in the basement. The crickets are still eating their way out of the box. Chaucer is still stuck behind the blanket. I am still throwing your engagement ring in the parking lot in the middle of summer. I am still throwing your computer on the basement floor. I am still crying and telling you I don't want to go to Chicago. We are moving in together for the first time. We are spending our first night together in our own bed in our own home. You are still staring at the wall and telling me the peanut butter cookies you remember from your childhood. We are still writing in journals all the things we can't say to each other. You are still kissing her. You are still kissing me. We are still sitting in an empty office while you break down and say it all. We are still angry. You are still at the party. We are still sitting at the tables outside the art fair. You are still sitting across from me at a restaurant not saying a word. You are still pretending you love me. You are still giving up. I am still clinging to your shoulder and crying on the bed. I am still kissing your fingers. You are still avoiding my calls. We are still fighting at 2 in the morning my last night in Chicago. I am still turning 21 without your "happy birthday". I am still coming home at 5:30 in the morning and fighting with you. I am still in the train station holding your body against me, smelling and tasting and feeling you for the first time. I am still there. I am stuck there. I am there. And I pull you against me and you crumble into pieces. There is nothing inside the brown shirt and the black shorts. There are no eyes behind the black glasses. There is nothing underneath the long, dark hair. And it's finally just me. Just me and a crowd of strangers yelling at me to pick up my bags.
I got a message.
Someone who wants to see me.
Someone I'm afraid to let see me.
Someone I know will give up just as quickly because I am not what they think they're coming to see.
Because what they'll see when they look at me is not what they'll remember. Not what they miss.
But they do miss me.
They miss me.
Why don't you?
Why does it matter so much?
"I can keep something perfect but learning to love someone in an imperfect world...I don't know how to do that."
Maybe I don't either.
Maybe you were the chance. Maybe I missed out on being understood a lot longer than three years ago.
I talked to someone online about all my bullshit about this breakup.
I sat alone for a long time. I tried to find someone else to talk to. Someone that wasn't you, or even remotely reminiscent of you.
I went out. I had a huge, long talk with another someone about...everything, really.
I came home. I was all messed up. I had a huge fight with yet another someone.
I cried. I tried again to accept the things that are
I fell asleep sometime past 6am. Maybe past 8am, to tell the truth.
I had a dream. A dream that will never come true. A dream whose potential to come true has long since passed. Years ago. Before love.
I woke up. And just like every morning, I opened my eyes and remembered where I really am. Who I really am. Who is here and who is not. I open my eyes and try to see light, try to stare into until it burns, but can only see all the mistakes we ever made, and all the things we could have done to stop them, and all the ways we realized that and let it go by.
I got up. I made small talk. I put on the brave face that isn't really a brave face because the eyes are always too wet and the throat is always too dry.
And I walked around the house, through my day and through the nagging knowledge that you don't care.
That you can stare right into the light because it's all you've wanted.
That it doesn't matter that I'm not there. I am only the refreshingly blank space in the corner that now doesn't bother you anymore. Doesn't hurt you anymore.
You are here, even when you are physically and emotionally more distant than I ever thought possible. Your hands are still wrapped around my waist. Your lips are still on my neck. Your body is still imprinted on the insides of my eyelids. We still breathe the same air. Your voice is still down deep in my ears, ringing. There are bruises in the shape of your fingers all over me, and they aren't going away.
I hate you for it.
I hate myself for it.
I hate the past three years because they still mean something to me. They still fucking mean something.
We are still in that train station, my bags on the floor and our lips touching for the first time. I am still in that train station bathroom, crying in front of twenty strangers waiting in line because I just felt love for the first time. We are still sitting on the sidewalk waiting for friends while a tear falls from your eye onto my hand. I still don't wipe it off. I am still crying on your shoulder while we slow dance to Iris in the middle of the night. You are still seeing my hometown for the first time. We are still sitting at a show with your hand on my leg where the stockings meet the top of my thigh. We are still in the car in a dark parking lot. I am still escaping to Chicago for a month-aversary while my mom thinks I'm in class. I am still carrying a box of Valentine's Day presents on the train trying not to smash the bow. We are still living in the basement. The crickets are still eating their way out of the box. Chaucer is still stuck behind the blanket. I am still throwing your engagement ring in the parking lot in the middle of summer. I am still throwing your computer on the basement floor. I am still crying and telling you I don't want to go to Chicago. We are moving in together for the first time. We are spending our first night together in our own bed in our own home. You are still staring at the wall and telling me the peanut butter cookies you remember from your childhood. We are still writing in journals all the things we can't say to each other. You are still kissing her. You are still kissing me. We are still sitting in an empty office while you break down and say it all. We are still angry. You are still at the party. We are still sitting at the tables outside the art fair. You are still sitting across from me at a restaurant not saying a word. You are still pretending you love me. You are still giving up. I am still clinging to your shoulder and crying on the bed. I am still kissing your fingers. You are still avoiding my calls. We are still fighting at 2 in the morning my last night in Chicago. I am still turning 21 without your "happy birthday". I am still coming home at 5:30 in the morning and fighting with you. I am still in the train station holding your body against me, smelling and tasting and feeling you for the first time. I am still there. I am stuck there. I am there. And I pull you against me and you crumble into pieces. There is nothing inside the brown shirt and the black shorts. There are no eyes behind the black glasses. There is nothing underneath the long, dark hair. And it's finally just me. Just me and a crowd of strangers yelling at me to pick up my bags.
I got a message.
Someone who wants to see me.
Someone I'm afraid to let see me.
Someone I know will give up just as quickly because I am not what they think they're coming to see.
Because what they'll see when they look at me is not what they'll remember. Not what they miss.
But they do miss me.
They miss me.
Why don't you?
Why does it matter so much?
"I can keep something perfect but learning to love someone in an imperfect world...I don't know how to do that."
Maybe I don't either.
Maybe you were the chance. Maybe I missed out on being understood a lot longer than three years ago.