lethe

The bruise is fading, the memory isn't.

Someone has tipped my hourglass,  time had started trickling down,  much like my mood,  lower and lower  with each setting sun.  Finally the last grain of sand  filtered through the narrow bend.  Then my time was up, not a drop left. 

I need people to handle me when I get like this. I want my friends back. I want the people who know me. I want the people who still love me despite my constant overflowing. The crash I knew was inevitable is finally unfolding. Right now I'm falling apart beneath the red glow of my Christmas lights, I could hear my friends' voices outside and next door. I desperately want to be alone.

8:03. He's three minutes late. He's standing me up. He knows what I want and he isn't going to give it to me. More minutes pass, his car pulls up, an awkward feeling of relief. It's just like old times. Hours pass. I don't remember what time it happens at. Mentally I say "fuck it" and lean in and kiss him. I pull away quickly, surveying his reaction. Aloud, I say "fuck it" and press my lips to his once more. I don't feel anything. Have I ever, though? This isn't anything new. So I keep going with it, kissing him longer, longer than I ever did when we were together. His neck became a canvas for my lips to paint upon. An eruption of blue and purple ornament it now. It's nearing 1 a.m., then surpassing 1 a.m. I point this out. "And what does that mean?" "It's bedtime," is my reply. "I think sleep can wait." Once again, my hint is not taken- "no" is not a valid answer, any...

it was 2 am when the thoughts came, and now it's 3 am as i begin writing them down. everything happens at 2 am. everything happens in 2s. 2 people. 2 months. 2 years. 2 am. always fucking 2 am. nothing ever makes it past 2 in my life. everything ends at 2. we were together for 2 months. and now it's been 2 years. and i still can't help wondering why i wasn't fucking enough.

I'm sad about everything and nothing at the same time. My mood shifts like the clouds in the sky, darkness one moment, a glimpse of sunlight the next. I miss the days of clarity, I miss the fucking sunshine. I'm nostalgic for one specific feeling, one particular sentiment, one I'll probably never have again. This time last year I was falling for someone who would let me down immensely, this time two years ago I was in love with someone who would do the same. This year I'm just falling, headed straight into the sea, I flew too close to the sun and burst into flames. I thought I would be a supernova, but instead, I've become a black hole, collapsing in on myself, sucking everything in, a star not at their grand finale, a dying star with no hope of recovery. Beware.

9:44 PM - "I low key wish we could just drive into the city rn." flashforward 3 AM - we're in the city. just like that, we did it - we got in the car, no set destination, no calculated plan, just good company and a nostalgic playlist, just miles, and miles of stretched highway and crossed borders, headlights illuminating the night as we weaved through unfamiliar streets and wandered into the city after hours. we're living, we're alive, we're doing this, we did this. the train is home to those with no destination, no place to be, nowhere to go. looking at them makes me sad, as we pass by multiple stops, awaiting the last stop for us to get off. I don't know when they get off, or if they're on this train for infinity, waiting for a stop that will never come for them. Times Square is lonely at this hour but I think I'm lonelier. I watch a couple nuzzle one another while walking. they're tangled up in one another, two matches stuck toge...

I have a girl who claims I deserve every constellation in the universe, that I deserve every star, every planet, every piece of celestial being in the galaxy. I have a girl who knows I drink when I'm sad, that knows the music blaring from the room next door isn't just an indication of mindless fun for me. I have a girl who knows I am a disaster, who's witnessed me drunk-texting her in desperation, who's seen red tally marks lining my wrist, who's seen my mess and still wants to be there for me. I have a girl whose doorstep I always linger past. I have a girl whose potential for love scares me so fucking much. I have a girl I've cut off, a bridge that's been burnt before it was ever finished being built. I have a girl that I do not deserve at all.

Here's to the nights that were young while we felt so much younger: To the stolen wet floor signs, To the circulation of overly familiar music played way too loud, To challenging each other and challenging ourselves, To shaking up alcohol in a Gatorade bottle, To chugging it all down once it's been poured in a cheap plastic cup, To drunken "group trips," even if it's just to go to the bathroom once we've broken the seal, To sleepovers spent down the hall and weekends of bitch squad hibernation, To laughs and inside jokes and trademarked sayings we've adopted, To daily gossip sessions and rant sessions. Here's to the friends that feel like home whenever I look at them. I could've gone to eight other colleges, but you guys have made me grateful I chose this one. And for that, I am especially grateful.

Everyone is so excited to go home tomorrow and I wish I could relate. I can’t fucking stop. Fuck everyone. Hibernation begins.

I have to remind myself to not make a constellation out of her; to not put her high up in the sky for me to look at and admire. I have to remind myself to not look up to someone who will just let me down. My skies are already filled with lost loves that destroyed me, yet I still look up at the scintillating skies as if they hadn't failed me before.

Was it today or yesterday?  The days all blur together, watercolor on canvas, eager to blot everything out in a haze of colors.  We're falling asleep, three in a bed, and in the midst of it, she pulls me tighter.  Her arm wraps around my waist, loose at first, and gradually shifting me, pulling me closer, two magnets placed dangerously close to one another.  6:30 rolls around, boredom hits, alcohol comes out.  I'm so tipsy I could cry. I don't even know why, but the tears threaten to spill out.  They don't spill out until later when she texts me, a casual "hey" that avalanches into my own confessions, a cacophony of "I'm sorry," "I'm so fucking sorry," "I'm so so so sorry," because I'm awful and she's amazing and she's so nice to me and I don't deserve any of it.  I admit that seeing her just makes me sad because I can't be anything she wants me to be, that I'm nothing but a disappo...

How I've missed this. It's been too long, far too long, but it's about time to get back on track. The holiday from hell is fastly approaching. Six days home, my own bathroom, my own shower, my own toilet, my own sink, my own obvious means of self-destruction. More hot water running, more doors locked, more hours spent in the bathroom with nothing but steam filtering under the door and a water bottle in my hand. This time was in the shower, and this time there was blood. If only I knew where it was coming from.

An unusual therapy session. We talk about nightmares and I dance around their actual storylines, I admit that so much has changed and that I'm trying to be okay with it, the dreaded holiday is coming up and home is a confusing term and I'm unsure where to spend it. Rush back to campus at the mention of pretty bottles occupying my friends' hands. One on a completely empty stomach. I've forgotten how good this feels. One more with food, a red one chugged, "Hurry up," she shakes the remaining content of the new drink she has just mixed. She pours this one into my cup, blue in color, "This one is a little stronger," and I know I will be unable to finish it. Dropping my ID card and then banging my shoulder off of a table that seemed to magically appear in front of me. "Are you okay?" They ask this, they know the answer, they know I am tipsy and slurring my words and not okay by any means. One shot of nighttime medicine and I slowly drift o...

I'm not safe in my naps anymore. I wake up, desperate to scream. Random glimpses of horror flash through me. Dead bodies, hands reaching to unclothe me, blood stained on concrete. There are barks and skeletons and so much blood. There's a river of blood and my subconscious is swimming in it. I cry and kick and fight in the dream, thrashing around to no avail. I run, I can't hide. It gets me every time. It's a daily occurrence now, my regularly scheduled naps are now disrupted by nightmares. What do you call it when nightmares happen in the middle of the day? She asks me what I dream of, what exactly happens. I lie, "I can't remember, I just know it's bad," My own heart rate wakes me up before my alarm. I'm not safe anywhere anymore.

I don't understand how someone could melt my heart so fast and it could re-freeze instantly. I don't know when I became so cold, my heart's temperature is drastically colder than the temperature outside. Winter is creeping in, outside and inside, too. I'm not warm anymore. Will I ever be warm again?

Friday Sharpie etched on my left forearm, tally marks mimicking the faded scars lacing their way up my arm like ladder rungs. Hours of shaking alcohol up in a Gatorade bottle, different potions and elixirs for my poor soul to drink thirstily. We wander to the cafeteria in search of a vending machine. We do this twice, in pursuit of more Sprite. I don't know how we make it past the RA, the guard dog, watching the door. 7 mixed drinks, 1 shot. The night is spent on the top of a bunk bed, her arm looped lazily across my midsection, holding me tight. I distinctly remember my fingers gently grazing the top of her hand, back and forth, searching for some semblance of feeling. I knew what I felt, but her feelings still remain unclear. Unclear or nonexistent. I teeter over the edge of the bunk bed, much like I'm constantly teetering in my own life, basking in my own personal spotlight, always ready to fall off of my tightrope. I wanted to fall, but I wanted her to catch me mor...

The hum of the noise machine. Dim lighting. Aesthetically pleasing lighting. Fog outside. Racing thoughts. Mentally writing this scene. Flashes of her. Memories of her. Bored. Everything makes sense. Alcohol. Campus. Driving. Underlying sadness. English rough draft. Uncomfortable jeans. Uncomfortable sweater. Uncomfortable boots. Discomfort. My roots are coming in. I wonder if he's okay. I wonder if she's okay. I haven't seen my friends all day. I can't wait to see my friends. It's getting dark out. I want to kiss her. Energy. Restlessness. More racing thoughts. Focus. Pay attention. Mania. It's just mania.

A blue plastic cup in one hand, my heart in my other. Both of these things will be my downfall.

I can't think straight, but that isn't an excuse for me wandering into your room after previously occupying another girl's body earlier today. I can't explain how it happened, how something so little, so simple, could be so confusing. I don't want to blame this on my pathetic need for human interaction, or my even more pathetic desire for the tiniest inkling of human affection. But maybe these factors are the ones to kindly take blame. My confusion mingled into the conversation, apologies spilling out of my mouth as I grasped your hand, my brain was quiet for once. The night had to come to an end. A simple parting of dodging kisses and tears spilling out of my eyes as I led myself home.

"You're my favorite," "You're my favorite, too," I whisper back. She doesn't know what I really mean by this. "You want one too, right?" I nod weakly, unable to say no to any drink nowadays. Today marks night three. I might have more alcohol than blood. I've gone from drinking alone in my bedroom for the pure sake of being drunk to drinking mixed drinks in a friend's bunk bed, tilting my head back as I down them, praying the alcohol gets to me before my feelings do. I want to grasp the blade, but I'm afraid of what will come out.

I told myself I wouldn't be in this position, yet here I am, a bottle in my own hand, watching as they stumble from too many shots. I watch her, focus on her, make sure she's okay. She blows a stream of smoke in my face and I am forced to act pissed in a poor attempt to mask how grateful I am that she's come this close to me. It's truly the little things with this one. The way she looks at me, offering me drinks, patting my leg beneath the blanket, sloppily kissing my cheek after she's had far too many. It means so much to me, too much to me. If only it could mean the same, if only it could mean something to her. But she's the life of the party and I'm just in the corner basking in her glow.

Champagne in a clear plastic cup. Svedka shakily poured into a tacky shot glass used for one shot. I was falling under the weight of the heavy bottle as I touched it to my lips, giving up on shots, giving up on myself, taking hungry, huge gulps. Next thing I knew we were together on the white rug, our bodies both fitting perfectly on it, my head on her chest as I laid in a drunken daze. I don't remember much. I remember sloppily drunk-texting her, speaking confessions my sober self wouldn't approve of. I remember heavily kissing her cheek and wishing I could reach over and just kiss her lips and blame it on this drunken night. I remember wanting this night to mean something, but instead, it's lost in my memory as just another blacked out college night. I remember being so proud of my sobriety as the world entered spring, but now I've fallen back into an endless snowdrift of drunk mistakes. I remember drinking alone because I'm sad and now I chug vodka while...

For three and a half hours your lips on mine felt so real that I was forced to wake up. I awoke from a heavenly dream into a nightmare once I realized none of it was real at all.

"Do you want to try some?" That's an understatement - we may not all know it, but I could have drunk that whole bottle of tequila with how I was feeling. But instead I gripped the red solo cup, her fingertips brushing swiftly against mine, and after one sip, I never wanted to let go. It's a problem, but it's survival.

I love my friends here. I love our nights spent in someone's dorm, unfamiliar music blasting, laughs circulating all of us. I love our expeditions to dinner together where we stare at meals in unsurprised disgust. I love our ability to make memories and jokes out of the littlest things. But there are some nights where I retreat back to my own dorm, close the door behind me, and long for my friends from home; nights where I begin to question where exactly home is and what it means. Is home where the people you love are? Is it still home if the people don't love me back? Is home here? Or is home still them?

She leaned on me close in the library in front of the other one, her weight entirely dependent on me and God how I wished I could hold on forever, just to feel the warmth of her against me, just to feel her body pressed into my own. She referred to herself as my best friend and maybe a small part of her is. She picked me up and carried me, effortlessly, every second of her touch electrocuted me. At night we sneak through the halls, a roll of tape in hand, eager to bask in our mischief. At the end of the night I fall asleep, realizing it’s been two years to this day, since the best day of my entire life. I fall asleep wondering who I’ll dream of, especially when I only thought I’d dream of you. How did this happen?