I used to lie to her. Tell her I liked watching the sunrise. Really, I just wanted to see the light break through the trees and dance with her strawberry blonde hair. I'd tell her I liked watching Saturday morning cartoons. Really, I just wanted to sit next to her, hold her hand, and lose myself. It was a hell of a change, I don't know if she ever knew what I was giving up, just to slow down long enough to stand beside her. Every passing minute a sacrifice, because all I wanted to do was keep running. Don't get me wrong, it was a choice well made, and I have no regrets. She lied to me too. She would tell me she didn't mind that I'd stay gone so long, that I would leave in the middle of the night for no other reason than my own restlessness. She would tell me she liked knowing I was fighting for my dreams, and her voice would fade out when she said it. Barely noticable, but I noticed. She wanted me to say no, to turn back after that first step away and look her in the eyes and stay home. I could hear it in her voice, even though she never spoke the words.
We were so different, opposite poles drawn together magnetic. She knew just how to kiss me, just how to cure the migraines that started coming more and more frequently. She would play at being disattached, tell me I could leave and she wouldn't try to stop me. And in those few moments of weakness, when she would lie in my arms and her eyes would give away all her secrets, she would tell me she didn't want to ever forget this. She would write me the most beautiful things, whisper to me of places far away from the hell we were both drowning in. If only we could rescue this one perfect thing, she'd say, we would be okay. I just smiled, didn't say a thing, because I didn't know how to react to someone who could make my heart pound in my chest. Leaving her behind never got easier with time, I never got used to it. Even knowing I'd see her again when I came home wasn't enough. I didn't say a word to her about it. Didn't want to burden her with my struggle, even though I knew she was going through the same thing.
Instead I said goodbye, a thousand times, and hoped against hope that she would know I didn't mean it. That I didn't know what else to do but leave, because I couldn't believe in something so perfect. And we would pass each other somewhere, and get drawn back into it. All it took was a passing glance, a how've you been, and we were racing to the sun again. Seeing whose wings would melt first, as we flew closer and closer to heaven, even if we never quite made it. She would promise me that it wouldn't happen again, I would beg her to understand. And every time it did, I watched another window shuttered. Another chance to finally come home gutted by my willingness to deny the obvious, to dance with discretion when I should have been screaming instead.
The night was that shallow dark you only see in the city, a sort of diffused light hell where I sat down at the bar and ordered relief from my own depression. The thing about this place, what really made it so miserable, is that they would gladly serve you, ease the pain, because they knew you'd wake up in the morning and feel it ten times more. Each drink was a window in a prison cell, a tiny spot of light where the mind would be just impaired enough to think things might end up alright. And the sun would rise and you'd look around and remember where you've been. Remember the day she left, because you taught her how, over the years, to walk out on even the most enticing dreams. And you'd look around the bar, find some unwitting soul to take home, to remind yourself just what you'd been missing.
See, the heart and mind, when they conspire, are far more wicked than anything. I had waged war on them, foolishly assuming they were incapable of firing back. And my heart would dress in the love of another just long enough to remind me of where I'd been, and my thoughts would step in to let me know I could never go back again. And strangers would read the words I'd written, and tell me they admired my strength. I didn't have the guts to admit to them that it wasn't strength that kept me going. It was guilt, self-hatred for all the things I'd done wrong. With each breath I was sentencing myself, punishing myself. I knew, from that day forward, the day I came home to a chest of half emptied drawers, that I would never allow another in. That I couldn't spare a second's happiness, because I had taught myself so well just how to destroy it.
I used to lie to myself, lean drunken on the hope that there would be someone else. That someone would reach through the darkness and draw me back into the day. Light me up the way she did, slow me down and keep me going and know me the way she did. I would tell myself, there was some hope, even though I knew there wasn't. Another condition of my punishment, one that put a gun to my head but kept me from loading it. Days became weeks became years, a decade spent suffering the torments of instability. And it never got easier, it never got better. I got better at hiding it, sure, but it was always there, blindingly obvious to the few who came close enough to see it.
So here I am, drink in hand, and a toast to what never could have been. Here I am, letting go of everything around me because I know there's only one way to know me. I take what I can, drink life out of a shot glass, shatter it, and swallow the pieces. She calls, cool and calm, to tell me she's getting married. Seems I taught her everything about me, cause I can hear her contempt for the idea beneath the words. I tell her congratulations, she yells at me. Bottle that much in, and you become prone to sudden outbursts. Textbook me, analyzing when I should be fighting, showing strength when she begs a moment's weakness.
"You can't be okay with this."
I assure her I am, I still lie to her, it seems.
We were so different, opposite poles drawn together magnetic. She knew just how to kiss me, just how to cure the migraines that started coming more and more frequently. She would play at being disattached, tell me I could leave and she wouldn't try to stop me. And in those few moments of weakness, when she would lie in my arms and her eyes would give away all her secrets, she would tell me she didn't want to ever forget this. She would write me the most beautiful things, whisper to me of places far away from the hell we were both drowning in. If only we could rescue this one perfect thing, she'd say, we would be okay. I just smiled, didn't say a thing, because I didn't know how to react to someone who could make my heart pound in my chest. Leaving her behind never got easier with time, I never got used to it. Even knowing I'd see her again when I came home wasn't enough. I didn't say a word to her about it. Didn't want to burden her with my struggle, even though I knew she was going through the same thing.
Instead I said goodbye, a thousand times, and hoped against hope that she would know I didn't mean it. That I didn't know what else to do but leave, because I couldn't believe in something so perfect. And we would pass each other somewhere, and get drawn back into it. All it took was a passing glance, a how've you been, and we were racing to the sun again. Seeing whose wings would melt first, as we flew closer and closer to heaven, even if we never quite made it. She would promise me that it wouldn't happen again, I would beg her to understand. And every time it did, I watched another window shuttered. Another chance to finally come home gutted by my willingness to deny the obvious, to dance with discretion when I should have been screaming instead.
The night was that shallow dark you only see in the city, a sort of diffused light hell where I sat down at the bar and ordered relief from my own depression. The thing about this place, what really made it so miserable, is that they would gladly serve you, ease the pain, because they knew you'd wake up in the morning and feel it ten times more. Each drink was a window in a prison cell, a tiny spot of light where the mind would be just impaired enough to think things might end up alright. And the sun would rise and you'd look around and remember where you've been. Remember the day she left, because you taught her how, over the years, to walk out on even the most enticing dreams. And you'd look around the bar, find some unwitting soul to take home, to remind yourself just what you'd been missing.
See, the heart and mind, when they conspire, are far more wicked than anything. I had waged war on them, foolishly assuming they were incapable of firing back. And my heart would dress in the love of another just long enough to remind me of where I'd been, and my thoughts would step in to let me know I could never go back again. And strangers would read the words I'd written, and tell me they admired my strength. I didn't have the guts to admit to them that it wasn't strength that kept me going. It was guilt, self-hatred for all the things I'd done wrong. With each breath I was sentencing myself, punishing myself. I knew, from that day forward, the day I came home to a chest of half emptied drawers, that I would never allow another in. That I couldn't spare a second's happiness, because I had taught myself so well just how to destroy it.
I used to lie to myself, lean drunken on the hope that there would be someone else. That someone would reach through the darkness and draw me back into the day. Light me up the way she did, slow me down and keep me going and know me the way she did. I would tell myself, there was some hope, even though I knew there wasn't. Another condition of my punishment, one that put a gun to my head but kept me from loading it. Days became weeks became years, a decade spent suffering the torments of instability. And it never got easier, it never got better. I got better at hiding it, sure, but it was always there, blindingly obvious to the few who came close enough to see it.
So here I am, drink in hand, and a toast to what never could have been. Here I am, letting go of everything around me because I know there's only one way to know me. I take what I can, drink life out of a shot glass, shatter it, and swallow the pieces. She calls, cool and calm, to tell me she's getting married. Seems I taught her everything about me, cause I can hear her contempt for the idea beneath the words. I tell her congratulations, she yells at me. Bottle that much in, and you become prone to sudden outbursts. Textbook me, analyzing when I should be fighting, showing strength when she begs a moment's weakness.
"You can't be okay with this."
I assure her I am, I still lie to her, it seems.
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