(This is basically just a journal entry and not poetry but stay with me, some rambles I am compelled to share. this is me just basically getting thoughts out. Feel free to share ur own.)
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I have never been patriotic.
Red, white, and blue, are not my statement colors in my closet. I’ve always hated the food, hot dogs, and belly aches from the processed cookies. Family time was always forced and I was spent in at least forty minutes.
But then I spent my Fourth of July with him. In a way I have never before, a party. I’ve always dreamed parties were these big events with blasting music, drinks, and everybody is happy and dancing, but this was not it. This was sand thrown over those dreams, snuffed it out. It was different, but not entirely bad either. Because I spent it with him. Although I know not to fall too far into the chasm of what could be, or what was, I will stay with the certainty of what happened. We’ve had our rendezvous in the past, but we were young and he was terrible. But now we are older and he still is terrible. But now I find myself enjoying it, telling myself I do not care, it is just physical touch. But if it is how have I just been thinking about it constantly for the last three days? He touched me, put his arms around me, and looked at me. Spoke softly, I felt him breathing under me. I was in his arms all night. I know he is bad for me, and I don’t feel guilty about using him to satiate my longing for physical touch I’m almost positive that's what he’s also doing with me. So we can use each other and we’ll be fine. But I felt his hands on my face, he was drunk. His fingers fumbling through my hair? He was high. Not one speck of self-control, self-medicating to a degrading point, a failure. we are the same, and maybe that is why deep down I find myself hating him, hating how I cannot escape him, hating how I crave that physical embrace—hating how it takes him forever to respond to me, and how we don’t hang out often enough as I want. But if I had it my way we’d be hanging out every day. Be glad I don’t. Summer is almost over yet I feel this need to rush things, like all of this will end. So fast.
The party was full of sad people, desperate for a shred of feeling. So they’d chase down bottles and smoke so many bowls in an effort to be real. Laughter wasn’t something that came easy, it was forced or mainly they were just too tired. Too tired to feel, to do anything but stay in the haze of their minds. The music sucked, rap in a dingy garage sitting on a crate for hours. But then he would come back, smoke a bowl, drink a beer.
then look at me with those stupid brown eyes and say, “Cig break?”
this was a night of indulgences, so I indulged. Spirit smokes, the very same kind my father would blow in my face as a child now leaving my lips. Made me realize what I was turning into. We went outside, finally free of the shitty rappers ringing in my head and the clang of voices I didn’t know. A lost fish, but it’s okay because I found my sea within him. We stood at the end of the driveway, he’d help me light my cig and somehow my gaze was always drawn to the playground across the street. It was locked.
So I’d just nuzzle my head into the crook of his neck, his arm around me steadying me. Even though he was the drunk one in this scenario. I hate alcohol, the taste, but the feeling, as fleeting as it is, made me feel okay. Warm, and fuzzy, but it would last a few minutes and I’d feel even worse than I had sober. Stomach cramping, headache pounding, so the only rational answer would be to drink more right? No. Smoke breaks with him.
It was so silent outside, early in the morning, almost five, our last cigarette then we’d sleep, our last break, then we’d forget. But I did not forget, how could I? The only thing my brain was clouded with was of him. And the smoke coming out of my lips. He’d whisper things, things I didn’t hear. But he’d never been one for talking, much less about personal things. Or he’d say something stupid like how he’d haven’t had physical affection in so long, as if that would make me feel bad for him. It didn’t. But I kept giving him the thing he craved knowing it would only end badly for me. And him, well no not really, because we would just destroy each other. I take that back, no, he would ruin me. Run me into the ground and make me as much, if not more, of a failure as he is. But I think that’s my shame speaking because I want to think that I'm better than him when I’m just as bad but better at keeping up pretenses.
We went to bed shortly after. Smelling of smoke and the night air. He took a rip of a bong then said he was set. After he had finished his beer. Modelos. I crawled into bed, bone tired at five am, and for some reason, I felt it so easy to fall back into his arms. Curl up beside him and run my fingers through his hair. Three years earlier I would've begged for this, someone to do this to me. But I am over begging, over everything that he had previously done. Left so abruptly, and only came back when his life plans didn’t work out like he thought they should. If he never would’ve dropped out he never would’ve contacted me. And the second that things start going super well for him again, the second he will leave and I will be left alone. Again. But I have no quarry with being alone, I find comfort in it now. But since that night I spent wrapped up in him I can think of nothing else. How perhaps just spending one more minute with my face pressed against his chest? Or feeling the rapid beat of his heart. I promised myself that this was just physical affection, satiating both of our needs. But when he spoke to other girls at the party, something sickly curled in my gut. He needs his friends more than his friends need him and clings to the fact that he likes being wanted. But he is not and I feel like everyone can see that but him. Or maybe I am being too perceptive, he is the perceptive one. But if he truly is wouldn’t you think he’d notice how much his friends disregard him? Then I think that people are most blind to what is right in front of them, they are most blind to their own lives.
A future with him would never work out in either of our favor, neither of us has a will to live. So am I just going to waste my youthful years on him while I wait for someone better? Leave him abruptly like he left me those years ago? Could I do that? I have always done stuff that I knew would hurt me because I constantly felt the need to be punished. Being around him is punishment enough. Craving the emotional intimacy I know I would never be able to get from him. I will not beg for him to open up, I will not beg for anything from him. If he wants to fuck me, I’ll let him fuck me. If he wants to date me, no, I won’t do that. Friends with benefits is what would suit us, and when something better comes along I will promise myself that I won’t spend a single one of my thoughts on him.
Yet, I can’t stop thinking about how his shirt smelled, and the pressure of his fingers on my hip. How we searched for stars in the sky but didn’t find one. yet I saw them in his eyes. He’s everything horrible for me, and I for him, but for some reason I long for things I cannot have. But I hate them too.
I hate him. But I want to feel those hands on my skin in a way that surely is sinful.
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