I still go back to that night I knew I lost him. It’s been almost a year to the date since he picked me up and we got lost, and that I gave him a mixed cd before he dropped me off when we found the way back.
In two weeks time, he’ll be a stranger yet again.
Words sharp like knives cut through her veins, which she said hurt more than anything she’s endured. Empty, sharp words delivered in quick succession with menace. And I almost regret the things I couldn’t take back even if I wanted to.
Almost.
I have so many ideas sitting idly in my brain. Ideas for a book, or for a poem, even an obituary. An idea for each witty comeback for every insult I’ve been told. I write them down because no one wants to listen anyway. On here, on paper, or anywhere tangible where I can comb through each word with my fingers while they try to run away. All these ideas waiting for someone else to find but in places where it’s hidden. Like a shady spot in the woods even when it’s dark, where bodies were buried in each 50-foot tall trees just a couple hundred years ago. Dead men tell no tales, right? And each of those rotting corpses just begging to tell you what they know, only if you asked. You might ask why I use a lot of commas. I don’t know why— they’re just smaller parts of my ideas waiting to die.
I pissed in public for the first time. In the dark, but nonetheless. It was cold. It felt… Nice.
Back home— five shoe boxes spread out and tripped over, three pairs of which are unworn, and three soft pillows still in each clear plastic. I might start using the pillows, but my room’s its own drunken mess. My shoes are ready to go. My appetite ran away, however, and nothing’s exciting anymore.
SOS - same ol’ shit.
It took me a while to be happy for you. Roughly 10 months. The better half of that time spent on regret. Silly regret. I’ve learned. I’m better off selfish. You’re better off with him.
That’s how our story goes.
What’s it matter if a bridge is of metal or wood when it burns like wick, and you’re all but surrounded with dirt in your eyes. All the while you trudge on damp mud and how oh, so badly, you wish for a way out… Only for a short while, but you know you’re alone again.
Don’t words get lonely too? When you say it, what you say… A dissonance between an eternal lisp of a whisper and grinding words that hold back thunder, without so much of a ready-made visual. An apology never seems enough.
