I’ve fought for issues I don’t care about: whether in the privacy of my home, arguing with my mother until I was blue in the face, or in a picket line, fighting fair wages, or at school, hugging trees, begging construction workers not to cut them down because those trees had history, man. I’ve kissed people I had no intention of dating, the boy from Africa with a huge smile or the girl with the bleached blonde hair that spiked up with her round, cute face or the frat boy who insisted on leaving lemonade and vodka by the bathroom door for when I got out of the shower. I’ve screamed at my mother and made my father cry. I’ve been afraid of the dark and afraid of being alone. I’ve been afraid of the things I cannot (cannotcannotcannot) change, no matter how hard I try.
I still cry when you hurt my feelings, but barely even flinch when I skin my knee or bounce off a car that sped through the red light. I still sob into my pillow over dreams and memories, flashbacks of a past I can’t quite let go of. Of course, I’ve been living my life with too much passion since before day one. No wonder she says I’ve been trouble since the first day–some people just can’t handle their passion intakes.
This was all years ago and lifetimes I scarcely remember. I used to keep a folded up suicide note in a messenger bag of mine (in a pocket and tucked away) until a friend stopped her fingers along it and asked what it was. I brushed it off as a letter. Something not to be read. She hesitated, then pulled her fingers away like the letter was singed at the the edges, and I had burned her intentionally.
You left me without saying goodbye because the last time you saw me, you promised things would be different. You promised me you were getting better. You pushed the hair out of your eyes, and you said you were changing for the better. I remember the smell of stale cigarette smoke as I hugged you goodbye, I remember inhaling your smell, and thinking I will miss you. I never knew the next I’d hear of you you’d be in a coffin.
I’m not racing towards the finish line because God knows I can’t even handle a sprint. Hope has always run a ragged edge. Snuff out my dreams with one shallow breath, and please. Please forgive me because I never got a chance to say goodbye.
Now is not an option; now is the only option. Newsprint grows crinkly and yellows. I start to develop crow’s feet, the little crinkles around my eyes when I smile. I’m growing older every minute, memory fading. I couldn’t tell you what his voice sounds like.
Stop trying to dig words out of my soul; they’re buried so deep under the rubble of a broken heart. This broken heart is under repair; there’s caution tape masking off the good parts, and we have hired a brand new monster to guard the gateway to my soul. He’s just a look-out, a guard, and he’s breathing fire. I meant to say, “I love you”, but the words shatter at my lips.
She told me she wishes we had had a chance to date, that she knows deep down he always loved me. It’s amazing really: the words you say in those wordless glances.
You helped me destroy myself completely, and now I am shattered, a car crash.
(And they wonder why I give up on love so easily.)
I wish you had evacuated this scene. I’m just one night’s regrets, and I’m sorry to disappoint. I’m shattered, a car crash. I was never very beautiful for long. I fucked up my lines again, but I’m ready to blow them all away with this word pistol I have holstered onto my hip.
I just wish I had enough time to say, “I’m sorry” and “I love you”.
This is a combination of some old writing I discovered and some new insights into old writing. Some of it is from old journals and some of it is realizations I have come to recently.
*Jamais vu is a phenomenon in psychology in which someone recognizes the situation they are in but is still completely foreign to them. Something which most people don’t understand, but I am all too familiar with.