lethe

"pls don't leave me." Then don't push me away.

I was watching the clock count down to 6:40, knowing a plane was departing without us; knowing we weren't getting our adventure; knowing we've come so far and had gotten so close, but fate is just a selfish tease and we took the bait, once again. You said we never get what we want in life and I'm starting to think maybe you're right.

I ask her what she wants, knowing I don't even know what I want. How hypocritical. Part of me longs for her to answer, "You, I want you," plain and simple, exactly what we are not. Nearby, another part of me fears this. I'm good at attracting girls who don't want to commit to me. Now I've discovered I'm equally good at pushing away the one girl who does want to commit. How do I long for commitment while simultaneously fearing it? The same way a baby bird yearns to fly but is too afraid to fall from the nest.

They all laugh at how I visit cemeteries, I even joke that they are my favorite places. But if only they knew that I visit them because I am as lonely untouched as the tombstones, and just as dead lonely as those buried below. I go to a cemetery and I understand. I am home.

His name falls out of her mouth with ease, five letters slipping out to wrap around my neck and strangle me. It's been one year exact, but the ghost just won't leave. I want to cry and scream and storm out and be as dramatic as I want, yet never am. "You don't consider him a friend?" Why would I be friend with someone who shoved themselves inside me on a cold November night? Who helped themselves inside where they weren't invited; who I thought nearly ripped my underwear from force alone; who I feared much worse from; who I still have nightmares about. "Friends" is the last thing I would consider us. I wish I could say this. Instead, I look down at my plate, resist the urge to throw it, and answer her question while sharpening my rusty tongue-- just like I always do.

there is a secret world that exists only to me. one in which, I'm not haunted by thoughts of you because the colors you paint me are vivid instead of bleak, there is no desire to erase the memories that plague my hippocampus. everything is crystalline, no secret feelings, no hidden agendas. transparency is our life. honesty flows as powerful as the River Styx. we dipped our whole bodies in, bathing in newfound protection, unable to be hurt ever again. especially by one another. there is a secret world that exists in me, only to me. under lock and key, I guard it. because in my secrecy there is no threat; only safety.

"Don't go back to what hurt you," they say. Why not just become it, instead? So I'll string her along, and flirt, act interested, hookup when its convenient, lie about my feelings, throw my heart in the freezer to keep it fresh, go all out. Fuck it. When did I turn into everything I've ever loathed? When did I turn into exactly who hurt me? I've been nothing but honest with my feelings my entire life and it has gotten me nowhere. Maybe I'm better off alone with a really good lie to keep me company.