a/n: But I'm tired of writing sad stuff.
I miss you. I miss you very much. More than that, I think I miss me. And oh, what a sad, sad little feeling it is to miss yourself.
I'm always missing people. There's never a time when I'm not missing someone, and it's compounded by the fact that the people I'm missing are always people whom I have made a part of me. They compose the very fabric of my being, I a patchwork girl with no particular color swatches to level out my uneven complexion. (I tried foundation earlier this year but it made my skin feel stiff.)
I miss—here I must choose my words carefully, for I have only so many before they over-saturate the page, run it over like Trojans over Greece—freedom. Wakefulness. Heat. Love. Music. Flight. Still the temptation to add more words hovers overhead like yawning staircases, for I am not a poet; my grasp of my language is not as complete as I would like it to be. It is in part because whatever bit of extraordinariness I experienced there refuses to be safely shunted into words. It refuses to be reduced. So know that there was so much more than that. Promise? Okay.
Of course there was a boy. There's always a boy. And nothing happened; there was only an instant sort of connection and in a different world it could have been more than it was, but I over-exaggerate in my mind as a small sort of comfort to ward off insignificance. I write love songs because I have none to be sung to me. I cry because I have no one to stop me. (But that's not quite true, because there are a few people who I think would notice if I was gone. And it is better to have a few people who care so deeply and passionately for you that there are no boundaries between what is proper and what is not than to have many whose attention is the shallow sort that will dissipate when they turn their head away.)
And I will whisper in your lips 'hey-aaah-hey…aaah-hey-aaah-hey…'
There is a certain weariness that weighs down my bones no matter what I do to suck it out, leave it dry, pure—the purity of skulls baked gleaming in the desert. There's been enough water in my life this year and it has been enough. And I am so tired of it. (daddy, mommy, I am so tired of it.)
I cried yesterday because my mommy held me, kissed my hair hard like she was saying goodbye, and asked me, her voice cracking, whether she had done something wrong as a mother. I was seventeen, she said. I was only seventeen. I should feel like I could do anything, I should feel like the world was a great tall door of infinite width. I shouldn't be tired of life at seventeen. Why couldn't I see that I was special, so special, that when I was born she just looked at me and saw forever and a day? And I cried, I cried so hard, my mouth open and hard, hacking sobs coming strangled out of my throat and that adjective just made me cry more helplessly. I grieved. They were grieving sobs, those ones were, for who I used to be and pretended I still was even though I wasn't, not at all. I grieved for child-me and I grieved for not-yet-grown-me and I grieved for the shrunken person I'd somehow managed to become in a period of six months. I grieved for the illusion of infinity and invincibility. I grieved for Virginia Tech and Christopher Reeve and the small nameless Indian warrior who sent a cry up to the four corners of the earth, a plea for his people, a despair for his long life and failing sight when the grass was smashed by wagon wheels and war.
Then I promised myself I'd be better. Talk sad and you make yourself sad. Whine and you are a whiner. I was ruthless in my resolution to become a better person.
I thought…(excuse me while I falter)…I thought, this summer, that I had learned to become more true to myself. Get annoyed. Snap. Assert my opinions. Become more human, perhaps.
That's only part of me, though. I'd forgotten the other part of me that I've kept sunken at the bottom of the bowl in favor of fascination with this newly loud, stubborn, opinionated, sarcastic me that I haven't experienced in three years.
But I've forgotten how to be quiet, you see.
I hope…I hope…I hope so much that I can have both parts and make them into one. I'm tired of being a dichotomy of a person, I'm tired of being the yolk and the whites and I want to be the fucking egg, no separation, no distinction. I want to be me and not have to feel as if I need to categorize 'me' into separate definitions.
You taught me that without knowing and I've forgotten.
…I miss you. I miss you very much.
I fell a bit in love with you. But more than that, I fell in love with myself.
And I will breathe the warmth of your breath in the night and hear hey-aaah-hey-aaah-hey…