Gasping.
Grasping.
Those sheets pressed between my white knuckles.
They don’t breathe. I can’t breathe. You won’t breathe.
You can still see the imprints of my scratches. Hours later. Days. Weeks even.
Primal sounds unrecognizable to even me. It reverberates in this darkness. I feel it in the air. I am left stunned. I don’t take the time to try and comprehend it.
My face flushes with just the thought of it. Of you.
12 hours later.
And there it is. conflicted.
Those sheets remember.
20120118
I wouldn't want to love me either.
You are so difficult to love.
(That isn't what he meant, but those are the exact words he said.)
And it stuck.
It stuck in the back of my mind each and every time he said he loved me.
Hell, it stuck in the back of my mind each and every time any man said he loved me.
(of there were many)
I wouldn't want to love me either.
I am stubborn. Insecure. Complicated.
Need I go on?
Broken.
That's the word.
I'm broken.
My head and my heart wage wars against each other. I never let either of them win. It wouldn't be fair. So I watch the battle, hoping someday one will come out on top and end the war. Someday I will sleep through the night without remembering one of a hundred scenarios I could have done differently in my life. Someday. But I pull the rug out from under both of them, and then I cry when it doesn't go my way. Sometimes I even stop to remind myself that I never placed a bet on either one, so what does it really matter if I didn't win? And none of it makes sense. Not one bit. The war? It doesn't even exist.
I wouldn't want to love me either.
I fall. I falter. I fail.
And it does no good. I still remember the look on his face when he said it. I knew what he meant but I made damn well sure he knew that the words were all that mattered. And he did. And I don't know if he ever forgave me.
That's not what I meant.... You are easy to love, just difficult to be with.
I don't care. It's too late to change me with your language. I read that line somewhere. In some book, off some bookshelf. Or perhaps in a tattered copy of something I loved which I kept in my back pocket. It's too late to change me with your language. You are difficult to love. It means I wouldn't want to love you. And sometimes I wouldn't.
(That isn't what he meant, but those are the exact words he said.)
And it stuck.
It stuck in the back of my mind each and every time he said he loved me.
Hell, it stuck in the back of my mind each and every time any man said he loved me.
(of there were many)
I wouldn't want to love me either.
I am stubborn. Insecure. Complicated.
Need I go on?
Broken.
That's the word.
I'm broken.
My head and my heart wage wars against each other. I never let either of them win. It wouldn't be fair. So I watch the battle, hoping someday one will come out on top and end the war. Someday I will sleep through the night without remembering one of a hundred scenarios I could have done differently in my life. Someday. But I pull the rug out from under both of them, and then I cry when it doesn't go my way. Sometimes I even stop to remind myself that I never placed a bet on either one, so what does it really matter if I didn't win? And none of it makes sense. Not one bit. The war? It doesn't even exist.
I wouldn't want to love me either.
I fall. I falter. I fail.
And it does no good. I still remember the look on his face when he said it. I knew what he meant but I made damn well sure he knew that the words were all that mattered. And he did. And I don't know if he ever forgave me.
That's not what I meant.... You are easy to love, just difficult to be with.
I don't care. It's too late to change me with your language. I read that line somewhere. In some book, off some bookshelf. Or perhaps in a tattered copy of something I loved which I kept in my back pocket. It's too late to change me with your language. You are difficult to love. It means I wouldn't want to love you. And sometimes I wouldn't.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)