I miss her.
We all know who I miss the most. Except, no you don't, because I don't talk about it. I don't write about it either, but now I don't want to: she told me not to sit at home writing and writing and writing.
She was easy. She was harder. She was boring, "but not too boring" I wrote and tried to believe. And it wasn't even "boring", I don't know the word for her, but she was too much of it, or too little of it, and now I'm guilty. These words are my Lady Macbeth invisibly bloody hands. Standing by the well won't do anything, so I guess I should listen and not stir the pot...especially since I don't want to, and don't know how to, despite my constant stirring of others.
I miss her. She was easy. She was crazy and awful and selfish and easy so I miss her. I miss being on my couch with her and when I had a sex dream the other night, it was her body of which I dreamt. I thought about telling her, calling her up, running in to her, sending her an email, but she would take it differently, no matter what I said, so it's not worth it. I wanted to tell her about that too. And that. Now this. She's so hated, but not by me, and I let it matter. Shouldn't it? Should it? Shouldn't it?
I'm tired.
I'm tired of having to explain that when I'm quiet, it's about me, not you; it's not always about you; it's not always about you; it's not always about you.
If I'm tired, it doesn't mean I'm avoiding, it means I'm tired, and maybe I want a turn being taken care of.
I want a turn being taken care of.
I'm tired of taking care, even though I'm good at it and at least used to like it.
I can't make you feel okay about that. I can't have this conversation again. I want to be Smith, and you be Samantha, and you'll break your toe for karma, then we'll hold hands and end up together.
I can't repeat past mistakes, and if I was going to, I'd just do it with the original cast and crew.
They sat on the couch in front of me: "How do you know?" "The movies always say that if you know, you know, but sometimes you don't know."
Fuck them. I did know. I had no questions.
(Just the pain of knowing.)
I never tell the stories of what it was like at home, with her. I only tell the bad and hard ones. Those hurt less. Y'know, in that ironic way that pain works out, where the happy, good stuff hurts more.
She ran to the trash can, told us to keep walking: I remember. I remember every morning, doing that walk. I remember the day I didn't do that walk and yeah, I do (fuck you for judging) still have that trash. She gave it to me. I ride my bike by every morning, or walk by every morning, I've trained myself not to remember. By a different trash can, when it wasn't me doing the running, I remembered again. I don't have drama to keep me from remembering.
I want to round every corner and see her there. I do.
I wanted it to be a joke from the Simpsons. I did. It's not though. It's from her dad.
I was on the couch that time, and she said I can have a new mom. I was too crazy and tired and not-myself to keep in the anger: "no I can't." She tried arguing with me for a while, but I was being irrational--because past pain and the resulting fear, it isn't rational, so don't expect me to be. Now I'm here, and I don't think it's irrational. Why would I trust again? Every friendship ends. Every relationship ends. Love is just deciding which person you want to destroy you inside next.
I'd already been destroyed in both of the ways this new woman was going to destroy me. And I wasn't really excited about finding her new way too. I told her the truth, even if I didn't tell her the specifics. I don't even have them figured out, but I know I don't want to be in a relationship. That's what I said.
I was mad. It had to be purposeful, and was at the least selfish and uncaring, but who cares, because besides when I dreamt Dad loved me, reality is better. Reality is better even when it's pounding that sounds like smacking, and singing that sounds like screaming. I was mad that bobbing my head into oblivion doesn't work. I thought "fuck you" in my head and bobbed again. There was more smacking and screaming, and looking out the window as sadness grows feels like childhood, so I just did that for a while. Then I realized this was the closest I'd have to comfort, so I felt her skin with my cheek, lay my head down, curled up tight, and slept restlessly, with the full knowledge I'd wake up sad. It didn't matter. I got to feel a hand on my shoulder, fingers in my hair, love that doesn't hurt yet, and 'll only hurt in a summer blanket way: easy to shake off in the humidity of bad dreams and windy nights.
Listening to Cat Power is like being in a room full of people I don't know, and then the best friend I didn't know I had comes in from out back and whispers softly in my ear, "here, I'll take that from you, and I'll just sing it, so you don't have to feel it, at least for a little while". I can get out of the corner, put my beer down on the coffee table, and sit on the empty couch. I can unshrug my shoulders, breathe the old air out of my lungs I've been holding onto so tightly, and feel my tired body again. I'd be invisible, and she'd just sing it for me, at least for a little while.
