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Just when I was getting used to the idea that things were over for good, I find out it's really just beginning. At first I didnít believe he would keep his promise, but after he had the ticket bought and the hotel reserved I realized, he was really coming. I'd be able to hold him, tickle him, hold his hand, see his smile, kiss him.
May 25th arrived. So did he.
And throughout the whole five days I kept thinking,
my God, my God, at last. Finally someone who can truly make me feel as if I belong, and alive.
He would always ask him, "Mr Hamilton? How can you handle nine children and another on the way? Children take so much from a person. Do you or her even have anything left to give?Ē
And he held his wife's hand, bent down slowly, lifted her shirt and kissed her stomach. Number ten, and no regrets. No, Never.
He turned, smiled at the young man, and said "Let me tell you son, When you truly love a woman you will always leave a part of yourself in her. Neither you nor she would ever want it any other way."
Sheís been gone before, but never like this. She was always a few days or weeks or months away, so I canít be blamed that for having a difficult time accepting that I will
see her again. I do not want to think of her lips on mine, or her arms around me, or any pleasant memories from our terribly long past because those are always the hardest to face.
He comes around now and then, but I have nothing to say except,
Listen, as long as I pretend she was never there, everything Ė and I Ė will be okay.
Youíd think Iíd have learned to defend myself by now, after years of him coming around and attempting to destroy what little progress Iíve made. Youíd think Iíd have learned to keep myself composed in his presence so as not to give him the satisfaction of knowing that to this day, he still haunts me.
I hate the smiles, the fake hugs in front of your daughters. I hate that moronic look of awe you have on your says, each and every time, "Wow! Youíve grown so much and so quickly!"
Yeah, you left me with no other choice, fucker. .
Graduation wasn't what I thought it would be. I hated the way every minute I sat there all I could think about was how much time was left before I was out of that crowded room and out of that silver gown and into his arms.
The company of friends is nice, but let me tell you, at the end of the day, we went back to his room, made love, cuddled, laughed.
Fuck parties. Fuck getting so drunk you black out.
I was in his arms, dammit.
I wouldnít have wanted to spend my graduation night any other way.
A dark night. And no hope. So few people around and her face burns from that slap she received from that handsome boy. What a bastard, what a bastard she thinks to herself. She raises the cup high above every head and says,
Cheers to the man who idolizes the woman and not what the woman represents.
Cheers to the man who does everything in his power to keep the woman safe and keep her content
And as for the man who believes "love is pain" and that women should do as he saysÖ.well,
let him eat shit!
So I wonder, do the amount of years weíve known each other make up for the fact that now, today, we have little in common and little to say? We push our differences away. We identify on a level that neither of us belongs to anymore, and we act as if things have never changed and will always remain the same.
You laugh. I try to force out a chuckle but end up releasing a small cry instead.
[And you only laugh harder, while I smile along and act as if I intended for it to come out that way.]
I'll be the first to admit that I didn't want to feel this way again.
I didn't want to still have such strong feelings for a boy who had hurt me so much in the past, and who I never thought would ever stop running. But, as we started talking again, I realized that he had matured. I also realized how
my feelings are for him and how stupid it is to try to shove that sort of thing deep into yourself and lock it in there.
Trust me, it only leaves you feeling inadequate, hopeless, apathetic and broken.
Perhaps there are only a certain amount of powerful words we are meant to write, and after we have reached that predetermined number everything thereafter can only come out empty and dry. I never liked believing in fate or that anything is predetermined, butÖ..maybe it actually does exist, whether I like it or not, and maybe Iím really stuck here.
Maybe there are no words left to describe my thoughts, feelings and the world and people around me.
Maybe there are no words left to describe this change that has taken over.
Or this apathy that attempts to consume me.
I remember her with her arms spread toward the sky and spinning in the sunlight, next to me. Our shoes and clothing would seldom match and we would never bother with make-up other than to paint our eyes black. There was no limit until we grew up and suddenly it was not okay to spin outside or write all over the sidewalk with colored chalk.
"Childish things," sheíd look at me and say, while she painted her lips red and I blew bubbles in the room.
"Iím a woman now," she said to me as she walked out the door.
I wonder, what if I had been born in a completely different country, to a completely different family, and I never knew of God. What if I was Buddhist and was a spiritual person, but not necessarily religious. Would I still feel His presence? Do I make up His presence when I most need it?
Tonight is going to go on forever. I want to walk around this damn dead city and meet someone beautiful who will tell me, "WAKE UP! Stop this silly apathy. I will help you. We will conquer over you. We will fight to the end."
He sat on the ground, his knees against his chest and his back against the wall. There were no stars out that night but he looked up and said they were beautiful, anyway. I understand her death has been hard on him, on both of us, but to do look at the clouds that way and tell me he could see her in the stars was a little much.
He couldnít even look me in the eyes. He sat there, crying and admitted he was always painfully jealous of she and I, because we were young, alive and in love.
She will never know how much I cared, or how much I admire her.
She will never know of the dreams or the many letters I wrote to her and threw away.
She will never know the number of times I closed my eyes and pictured her in my arms, or that I was the one who, long ago, called her number from a pay phone because I missed her voice, and hung up.
She will never know how much of a better person I am because of her inspiration.
She will never, and I think Iím okay with that.
yesterday was a nice reminder that i do love this city. i do love the mountains, i do love the trees and i do love the lights.
for years, i told myself and others "this city is dead. this city is shit. this city is a godforsaken place and i'm going to leave it as soon as possible."
the truth is, it was never the city. it was my home. it was my past here, my present, and what i imagine my future would be like if i stayed. it was the being told how to live, what to believe.
Honestly, I despise involuntary memory more than memories themselves. Iíll look at the position of my arms or legs or at the sun shining in through the window and I instantly recall memories of the two of us on my bed, tangled up with one another.
Itís this simple: I do not want to remember. I know what I had was a great thing, I know Iíve lost it. I know she will always be part of me but I would much rather not remember the "everyday" moments, because goddammit, itís always the memories of those that hurt the most.
Tonight may just go on forever.
As long as you and I know, it's endless. How do you know the sun is coming back to us? Maybe she finally decided she's had enough. Maybe she rather sit back and watch how peaceful the Earth is in the darkness. Maybe she is finally tired of burning us all with her rays.
Weíll stay here all night, holding hands. Once we sober up we can close our eyes and not open them until the sun returns to us.
Maybe it will be time to let go of fear and sleep for eternity.
Can we ever truly know nature the way nature knows us? It is a part of us, and I see that more every day. I see myself, primitive, raw, and I see how similar I am to the many animals out there.
The dogs used to fight when we would give attention to one and not the other. It was then I learned that in many aspects, I am no better. If anything, I am worse.
Two minutes later, they were running around together, happy, and here I am, years later, and still unable to let go of the resentment.
There is no resentment anymore, no. But there is fear and pain. There is constant worry that, out of nowhere, heís going to pack himself up and leave again. Chances are he wonít, but the fact that itís happened once before means I will always live with that fear shoved into the back of my mind and deep into my heart.
Forgiveness has been crucial for us to get where we are now, but I will never and could never forget.
And if he leaves again, there will be no coming back to me.
Things will be done for good.
it was the being told what not to be. it was my mother. it was my brother. it was my church. it was that goddamned sonofabitch former uncle of mine that i had the hardest time forgiving. it was J and the gangs and the fear. it was the knowledge that staying here would mean i could never really be myself. it was the need to get the fuck away from people here who have always brought me down and who have always kept me nice and controlled. it was that need to go and live the life i want.
The poet invited the moon for supper, and ten minutes before she was due a note was slipped under his door. It read,
"Iím sorry, I was all dressed up and on my way when I realized I could not show my face. You see, every night you go to the pond and stare down at the waters, look at my reflection and admire my beauty. But you have never thought of looking up and seeing me for what I really am. You have fallen in love with my reflection, poet, and by doing so have stolen meaning from me."
She will never understand why I choose him over M. She saw us together in the hall and gave us a disapproving look that would make any normal person want to puke. I just held his hand tighter. Later when we were alone, she turned to me and said, "Howís
working out for you?"
Biting my lip was all I could do to keep myself from crying over her bitter tone. She wouldnít even look me in the eyes. She prefers M because he "never hurt" me and made me "happy" but she doesnít know shit.
I was miserable.
She could not just leave well enough alone. She could not just let go.
But did I ever expect her to? Of course it was just a matter of time until she realized what a great thing she gave up. I wonder, if she had never made such a stupid mistake, would he be here today? And if he had not returned, how would my life be today?
Would I still be trying to hold on to that false feeling of love I tried to create?
Would I still be a prisoner, or would I have eventually set myself free?
He says, "At least
never gave myself physically to people I was never really in love with."
"Bullshit. What the fuck else did you do with me? You slept with me before you ever loved me. You slept with me for months before we were ever officially together. Youíre trying to tell me you were in love with each of those 20+ women you slept with in college?"
And she slaps him.
It happened without her realizing it.
He was getting too close; she could feel his hand on her waist.
He wastes no time in hitting her back.
I may not be the greatest writer, nor the most prolific. I may not be the most verbose writer, nor the most descriptive. But, Iíll tell you what, I am by far the most passionate.
Words consume me. In fact, my need and passion for writing consumes me so much that they cause me to feel absolutely mad sometimes.
I realize that most people donít care about passion, but about things like how many literary devices are used.
My writing may not change the world, but it may change me.
And quite frankly, thatís what I am most afraid of.
Twenty-some masks for us all, and counting. All layered, one over the other over the other. Our true faces are, hidden, fading. We think,
We say, "this is my true face" about every layer and later, when surrounded by different people with different layers, we say it again.
So often, in fact, that we believe it. Some of us. And those of us who donít, we tire and break a little more with each mask, until one day we decide weíve had enough.
Weíll tear off layer by layer, and will be left with nothing but raw beauty.
"What kind of person kills themselves when they have CHILDREN?"
Where do you get off calling her a horrible, selfish person for choosing the path she did? Donít pretend to understand her. Donít apply your own prejudices to her situation. She lived a life much more complicated and sinister life than you ever have or will.
Try living in abusive households all your life and being literally unable to get out of that lifestyle. Try being born into and growing up into a life of gang violence, substance abuse and always fearing for your life.
Then you can talk shit.
the people here who judge us...well, fuck them. it's all over the world, not just America. maybe we can move to Europe some day. but we don't have to because people have and will judge me and i've reached a level of apathy about it. i don't care what people think of me or us or how i act or how i dress or the fact that Iím in love with a boy so far away. i don't care what anyone thinks about it because quite frankly i am tired of caring what people think and living to please them.
Is this something you should know? I always thought this was between me & her. Sheís the one who threw those bottles against my wall and picked up a piece and held it against my throat. I knew you wouldnít dare to kill me, but really, I was afraid because you were sobbing and begging me to stop seeing him.
"Itís breaking my fucking heart, E."
(You always did prefer my middle name.)
And I saw you fall apart, (once again, once again, once again)
Iím sorry you had to witness me this way, But Iím not sorry have changed.
look at yourself now, proud and "happy"
but alone like you've never been before
because once you've tasted
love & happiness
you can never forget or let go
of that desire to want
to feel loved & complete once more
"boy, i'm sorry, but you had your chance
and you didnít know
how to keep me close enough
and love me with your mind, heart
you chose your friends instead,
and that other girl,
with a bottle in her hand and
a boy on the side.
you convinced yourself you were happy
and we died a quick death
I wanted to be the better person but found myself with no strength.
I wanted to say something clever and comforting but instead ended up sounding like a jerk.
I wanted you to know how lost I was but instead found myself standing silent and watching you go.
I wanted to call you but couldn't get myself to press "send" on the phone.
I wanted to say so much but could not string together my thoughts into words.
I wanted to change the world, but found resistance everywhere I turned.
I wanted so much, but don't have the energy anymore.
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