23, Marche 2008.

N.M,

I feel it in your voice when you address me—or rather, respond to my addresses. It’s not like you talk to me anymore or anything. If you did, you could see me as more than this groveling, angry, useless damsel you’ve concocted of your own imagination. I didn’t get what I wanted, you think. I didn’t get you. And you know that. I know that! So stop acting like I’m going to seduce you any second now. Stop acting like I’m some evil, repulsive temptress come to steal your lips against your wishes and with them your very soul—I get it. I disgust you. (Don’t act like I’ve never been disgusted.) You don’t like me. (Don’t act like I’ve never disliked.) WHATEVER. You have no right to be rude when all I do is offer kindness. You have no RIGHT to snatch at my mistakes like an eagle to vulture’s eye! So I stumbled… do you need to PIN ME DOWN? So I took a wrong turn—why change the signs to lead me DEEPER into the woods? I’m sorry if our MUTUAL ATTRACTION offended you in some way. But you do understand, there’s this thing called time, right? It’s over (you’ve made that quite clear.) It has already happened. It’s gone. That’s your mistake. What do you want from me now? Do you expect me to just fade away into nothingness? Stop existing, just because you’re not particularly fond of me anymore? Now that your shiny new toy is all ragged and used, will you throw me against the back wall in repulsion? (Oh, yeah, you already did that, DIDN’T YOU?) FUCK YOU, N.M. I want to be your friend, GOD DAMN IT! What did I ever do to annoy you so damn much? Love? Lust?

You told him you never let anyone wear your jacket because it was your grandfather’s, right? Right? Well, then remember that night—how could I forget it, I bet you think, you pompous, “charitable” beast—well you GAVE me that jacket. And you shivered in silence and smiled and held my hand because you were smitten god damn it! Bet you didn’t stare through me like I didn’t exist THEN. It’s hard to give family heirlooms to invisible specters, isn’t it? FUCK. What the hell is wrong with you? God. Thinking of you with her (my new, “rare” replacement) burns like acid on my nervous system… but at least now I know you can actually FEEL. You know something? It’s a relief I’m not happy for you being happy. If I was, then it would be LOVE, you see. It would be REAL. At least I can wallow in the bitter shelter that this was never more than chemicals in my body yearning for a handsome child. YOU were never more than chemicals in my body. I hate this. I hate this. I hate this. I… I want to hate you. I should hate you. Why can’t I? I don’t understand, I really don’t. What changed? I sure didn’t, and neither did my heart. I know ‘cause I’m still stuck in the same rut I was in months ago.

Oh.
Oh.
OH.
It must be you.
Of course.
It always fucking comes back to fucking you in the end, doesn’t it?
FUCK.

You know, if we were the friends I tried to make us be thirty days ago, this would be easier. For both of us. (What am I talking about? That’s selfish. I’m selfish. It’s just me… us. Ha. That never really was, was it?) If we were friends, at least I could be in lust with someone who doesn’t HATE me. You don’t even know me, god damn it, how can you hate me? HATE me! You think just because I told you all that shit—how I felt and fucknot—and just because we spent one lame night hunched together in the cold—while I WORE YOUR JACKET, remember?—I bet you think it meant you know everything. Like you could write the fucking Wikipedia article, citations and all. You don’t even know the FIRST THING about me. I bet you don’t even know my last name. Or my birthday. Or that I don’t put condiments or seasoning on ANYTHING. Or that I have a picture of a wolf in that locket I always wear, and that I only take it off when I shower. Or that I bury rocks on momentous occasions. Or that I don’t dance at concerts. Or that I care more about what my best friend’s 38-year-old bass teacher thinks of me than I do my own mother. Or that I miss my dad a lot more than comes across, because despite what it looks like, he really isn’t ever home. Or that the only thing that made me cry more than my mother when I was a child, was when my preschool friend ripped my favorite leaf to shreds because it was stupid. Or that Alexandre and I had a secret hide out behind the tree in the park when we were small and we wrote on the back wall in chalk and twelve years later, it’s all still there, electric blue and angel dusty as the day we scrawled it. I never met my grandfathers. I smile because it’s easier. I can’t write poetry in pencil. Did you know that, Nicholas? Did you even KNOW I was a poet? Did you know… did you know how many I wrote for you (in BLACK pen)? I will tell you. Forty-seven. All i’s dotted, all t’s crossed. And those are just the one’s I wrote down. You were my muse. Still are… I mean, look at this crap. Oh, that’s right. You won’t. Or can’t. Or never will, I guess. Because you just don’t ever give a fuck about other people. Ever. You see, I’ve come to understand that when you run to someone’s side when they’re hurt, it’s not because you want to heal them. It’s sick fascination. It’s because you can. It’s because you want us to see you get there first.

You’re angry and shattered.

And the reason I sing when you are the only one around is because I know you won’t talk and it settles in my stomach better than the silence. I wish you would just listen once and a while. The songs are about you, you know.

Maybe I’ll just keep quiet for a while.