When We Met

This is what I just let myself read and remember.

http://redandwhitepianokeys.blogspot.com/

I was several years younger, excitable, ridiculously naive, and highly analytical. Wonder what's changed, besides the number that says how old I am.

Stupid idea to have looked. Wish I could've shown him, though. Especially the ones from the beginning. Maybe he would've found it funny, or insightful, or amusing.

"I'm tired. But... I think I’ll wait up for him tonight. I want to talk to him."

At least those won't happen anymore.
Directly.

Fire

It's 2:30 in the morning and I know I'm not allowed, but I'm having a bit of a time of it, up here in my room. It's just me that's awake and the whole house is quiet. One side of my ribcage is bleeding a little, two deep gouges, but I'd rather not get into that because it's embarrassing. Random unnecessary detail, I know. I guess I'm zoning out with lack of sleep.

Anyway, I think I'll leave some posts here I wouldn't otherwise publish, since this is a fairly invisible blog and nobody'll see it anyway. But I'd like to record them nevertheless.

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Writing Things I Wish I Could Give You

Yeah, I still haven’t moved away from my mindset of, “I’m here to support you every step of the way!” so I guess I’ll leave these here, where you’ll never see them, instead of giving them to you. It would be wrong to. I know you don’t want me talking as much as I do, I'm annoying and obviously don't get the message.

Sorry…

http://the-write-idea.tumblr.com/

http://www.jobprofiles.org/library/students/50_awesome_open_source_resources_for_online_writers.htm

http://www.scribd.com/explore

I'd like you to know that I believe in you and know you'll be a great writer someday. When you're published, I'll buy your book and show all of my friends, sad as it might be by then. Really, though.... I really believe that you'll make it. Even if you think English is a dead-end. It isn't, and you're going to be wonderful. I would've loved to be the one there for you when you spend weeks locked in some office, papers strewn everywhere, letting your beard get way too wild while you don't really take care of yourself because you're too busy on a writer's roll. I can clearly picture your desk, with its chewed pen tops thanks to your oral fixation, empty cans of Coke Zero and Guinness stacked around like it's nobody's business, the little clay elephant I made for you sitting beside the small piles of crinkled gum wrappers, and your smudged glasses resting on the one bare surface there is, because you can't be bothered to stop to clean them, and they're just far too dirty to wear by then. But the day you end up adding the period to the end of that last sentence, I'd still walk in and give you a great big hug and a kiss, and say "Well done." Even if I'd barely seen you for weeks on end. Even if you'd been silent as the grave because you had a thought that had to come out, unfettered. Even if I was kind of mad at you for ignoring me for your work.

I'd get over it. You'd be mine, you'd be scruffy as hell, and I'd be ok with that. So long as you maybe took a shower, because it's likely you'd smell a little. And maybe trimmed up, too.

Dear God. I have so many daydreams still. I hope they fade away soon.

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I'm being a bad girl,

and am letting all of what I’m tangled up in just fade and settle to the bottom of the glass in my right hand.

Cheers to the mist that’ll help it disappear.

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The first of the two was from a little over two weeks ago, and the second, maybe 10 days back, at about 1:30am, when I was so sad I let myself into the liquor cabinet downstairs, which I've never done before in my life. God, I'm exhausted right now. Ugh -- I keep saying God, which reminds me of how on Tuesday, I spent an hour in the basilica in London, praying to a God I don't even believe in, in the hopes that maybe he'd hear the two things I asked for. You were only one of them, I promise... there have been other serious things on my mind as well, lately. I'm sure it's easy to guess, if you were to look at my Tumblr, or even a recent post on here. But mostly, tonight, my mind's on you.

The scariest part for me is that I'm catching myself doing what I've always done to get away from pain -- I remove the source. I am literally going to forget and otherwise block out all of the memories I've gathered and stored, then I'm going to desensitize to everything for a long, long time, and then, I'm going to get to the point where I couldn't care less what happens to you. Soon after, you will stop seeing me. The amount of participation you'll have in my life will be looking at the pictures I post to my Facebook profile, maybe wishing me a happy birthday, if you think to do so. You will not hear from me. You will not be able to tell me about how things are for you. We will meet up for coffee in ten years, if I remember your name, and say how life's going. Then, we will leave and go opposite ways like nothing happened. And that hurts me.

You said you wanted to stay friends, and be able to talk, and have more than what I just described. I tried to get towards that point, but even though I made the effort (it was painful, by the way; I did it because I would have rather hurt than completely lose out on you) you threw cold water on it and left me standing alone and feeling like a complete idiot. I half-knew I wouldn't be able to do it anyway. It wasn't all-or-nothing; it was a sore heart, and a gaping hole that I figured would soon be filled by someone else, or a variety of someone-elses, both of which would break me to watch occur.

I'm going to stop being me, to you. But I guess it's part of the process. After all, you stopped being you, to me. Your presence feels different. You're as attractive as ever, and your smile (however infrequent around me) still sends me spinning, but you're guarded, like I'm watching a recording of you interacting with someone else, rather than me. And you don't care, you can show that all you like. You aren't obligated to care.

I hate that word. Was I really only an obligation?

Sorry -- I guess I just hate this whole thing. But hating only fuels the fire that burns it all away, so maybe I'll feed it some more.

A Source of the Hornets

You likely don’t remember my name.

But I remember yours. I’ve always remembered yours.

I remember the bricks of the fireplace behind you in this photo, the gold fire poker that was always there to trip over, and the way the concrete hearth felt when it scraped the palms of my hands. I remember the weight of your movement, the way you would quiet me when your mother approached, and the way your fingers would rip and bite into my wrists.

I remember. And I know that, to this day, I still have nightmares about what you’ve done. Sometimes, I want to ask your sister, my childhood best friend, if she remembers too. I never have before. But someday, maybe I will ask.

And maybe, someday, I’ll write to you and tell you how much damage you did to a little girl that didn’t bring any harm to you. Maybe I could tell you how much respect for her grown-up self was lost, because of you. Maybe, I could tell you how much you make her question her self-worth and personality almost every day. Maybe I could tell you how much you anger and sicken the only person in her life who knows who you are and what you’ve done. Maybe, I could tell you how badly he wanted to hurt you. Maybe I could tell you that now, she’d let him, if he still felt enough to want to. Maybe, I could tell you that she thinks you don’t deserve that baby in your arms. Maybe I could tell you she wants to take it away from you and see your face when she gives it to someone who knows what it means to be human. Maybe I could tell you she’s afraid of you. Maybe I could tell you that she hates you.

And maybe, I won’t.

Someday, I will see you. Maybe, your God will speak up for you again.

Maybe he won’t.

Remember that little girl?

... Hi.