I Always Forget the Streams

Well. Here I am. 23 minutes which now seems an eternity, but will in no time turn to dust.

Just as it all turns to dust. I made a new friend. A good one. A really good one. Yesterday we lay on her bed, with her best friend, and we all three leaned on one another and it wasn't scary and it didn't hurt me and maybe the people I want to be friends with aren't the ones I know how to connect to.

I reread some of Mar's words, and my words to her, and the words of poets we've shared back and forth over and over.

Maybe I can't sleep at night because my body's smarter than I am and it knows that now I have the excuse to feel like this, to feel quiet and embarassed for no reason. To show off my grandparents house (or I guess just my gramma's now) because it's something I've done before and maybe it's a way to relate to these people, or at least to keep them confused and distracted from looking at me. Yes, I asked for their help, but they were too good and I just don't know what to do with it all.

How come when someone else dissapoints me I just feel dissapointed in myself? I guess because it's always been easier that way. It's always made more sense to blame me because I have control over that and punishment can be as easy as a set of pushups and as hard as... I get dissapointed not in the person I was counting on, but in myself for getting tricked into counting on yet again.

They asked me to describe my ideal date and the whole table ahhed as I simply went with what came to me, but the person I date can't seem to give up enough control to let me be in charge for a day. I saw them. Two of them that I'm growing to love more and more on my date today. I genuinely smiled and I feel good that I'm that smart and real, but I want to go on the date, but the woman with her foot teetering over my heart not only wouldn't take me on it, but probably wouldn't come along.

I know you're out there reading, all four or five of you, but I'm not going to defend my choice of relationships here despite how drastic this situation may sound, because this is the place I come to write the stuff that usually needs defending.

I looked at The Ex's facebook page and she changed the picture from the one I took of her in our kitchen in Spain when I made her pumpkin pie from scratch and she had her grin she only used with me on her face, to one where she's wearing my shirt. To a picture from the time when we didn't live together, and still only one person knew, and she was far away too, so I was depressed, but no one knew, and I gave The Ex that favorite shirt of mine to have while we were apart, and I wrote her books, because a letter a night seemed silly, and she took that picture, in the shirt she stretched out so I no longer wear, and made it her new facebook profile picture.

Why does she still hurt me? How was I able to show another, even more painful and indescribable picture to the two of them--whom I don't know--without a break down, and without hurting more than I know how to express, how could I even say who was in it, to all of these people that I don't know, without vomiting or running out or hiding it or bursting into tears?

It's only been twelve minutes, but I think I'll leave a little early today. I want to go home to cry and take a nap, but I'm sure I'm expected--and I like that. The tears are always just below, so today I'll meet the out of town friend, and I'll celebrate the dater's birthday, and I'll convince the needy that I was happy to help, and I'll forget about myself. Because that's the easiest way. It's always the easiest way.

It's easier than this.