A/N: Cross posted to my DeviantArt account.
SaveMeElsa DOT deviantart DOT com.

miss you


I never did like the way all those houses looked so fucking pretty. Like everyone inside them was absolutely perfect, not fucked up in the way most of them were.

Like little Mark Turner. Remember him? He had a twin named Mike. Mike was the nice one. They were like God and the Devil, those two. Mark was a sick little fuck. Sadistic. Remember how in love with me he was? I'm surprised he didn't murder me in my sleep. I never liked him, but I let him kiss me once.

You never knew that, did you? I never told you. Hell, maybe it means I'm fucked up too, though I've never denied that theory outright.

When they moved away, I always felt bad for Mike. He couldn't escape by chance like we did; he had to wait it out.

And now I'm talking to you like you can hear me. But then, you always knew when I needed you. There were those nights I would lie in my bed and send you psychic thoughts. How old were we? Twelve? And I'd imagine us in my bed together, holding hands. And then you'd tell me the next day that you dreamt the same thing. We had a pretty cool mindmeld back then.

I'm sitting on your bed in your room, looking at all your things, and you're peeking out from the corner of your eye as you sit at the desk.

"Boo," I say, and smile at you. You grin back, like you always used to. I swallow up the urge to kiss you, taste your lips. You're not mine now; haven't been for a while.

But, you must have decided, holding hands isn't against the rules. So you reach out for me, and I grab your fingers, squeeze once. You squeeze twice. I've missed this.

You ask me where I came from, and I almost laugh. 'A uterus,' I nearly say, but the smartass in me can't come out to play today. I know what you mean.

"I was just in Montreal," I say as you light my cigarette with yours, our faces coming close. So close I can smell your hair… strawberry shampoo. Some things don't change. "They have really fucking good syrup."

You smile and laugh, and I can see that pinch of hurt in the way you fidget with your jeans. And if I smile too it's only because I love it when you laugh, and not at all because I'm bitter.

Tonight I am ripping up old lottery tickets, because you chose him over me. You know, the ones we used to collect and write totally random shit on. The ones I hate the most are the ones that say "I love you". Those go in the nearly empty trash can first.

I have this old cigar box filled with all our junk. Hair-ties, notes we passed in class, secret cereal box decoder rings; that sort of thing. It's kind of sick, in a way, how much I've kept. How much I still love you.

It's cold out and I rub my arms because I'm a fucking tool and left my jacket inside. And even as I hold the match over the trash can, I know that in a few seconds I'm just gonna let it burn down to my fingers. Then I'll gather up all the shredded memories and put the box back in my duffel bag.

'Cause in the end, I don't blame you. I'm the one who left.

We're sitting down by the duck pond near the library, but we had the sense to bring a blanket this time. Last time we got covered in goose shit, remember?

He's not around, for whatever reason. In fact, I still haven't met him. I'm not sure I even want to, but there's this gnawing low in my belly telling me I should. Am I your dirty little secret?

I don't ask, because we're laying lazily in the afternoon sun, and your hand is on my face. It would be better for us both if you wouldn't look at me that way, but you do, and I kiss you. You don't seem to mind too much.

I run my hand through your long dirty-blonde hair. Funny, now that I think on it. Back then it was always some fucking weird color, and mine was always brown. Now we seemed to have switched places. And I nearly choke on my laugh because my hair is short and green and I like yours better.

It's at the supermarket when we bump into each other. You and him, and me. And it's just so fucking clichéd that I almost want to cry.

He's fucking gorgeous, in that rugged, warrior-man kind of way. I falter a bit in the introductions. What should I say, dear? 'Hi, Devin. I'm the chick who's fucking your girlfriend! Have a nice day.'

But I don't say it, and you look at ease with his arm wrapped around your waist. Did you ever tell him about us? Is he a part of our secret club now?

I leave the store with a pack of cigs, some juice, and another crack in my heart.

I don't think he knows because you told him. But I do think he knows.
There was this one time in junior high when we made a new friend. Her name was Jill and she was under house arrest when we first met her. She reminded me more of myself than she did of you, and I never really liked her.

She was a fucking snake. She slithered in and coiled around you and poisoned you against me. You were cruel to me for three weeks, and I took it all. I'd tell her to go to hell when you weren't around. She moved away, too, but before she did you apologized. I forgave you.

And that was when I really understood just what we were.

I'm packing all my shit again when I see that stupid cigar box. I have the overwhelming urge to vomit. What is it that drives me away, and then keeps pulling me back?

It's you, I think, and everything becomes a little bit clearer. There's a car with a full gas tank outside, and I haven't even seen the West Coast yet. But you're there, leaning against my old, beat up car. Never could do anything right, especially when it came to letting each other go.

I don't give you a chance to say anything, because I drop my bag and take your face in my hands and kiss you roughly like you did to me the first time.

"You're leaving."

I try not to smile at you, and I pick up my bag. Lean around you to toss it in the front passenger seat.

"You gonna try to stop me?"

You're about to cry, and I can't stop the bitter half-smile that graces my lips. The engine roars in my ears as I leave you behind again. And clarity. Sweet clarity.

I remember why I left in the first place.

I'm twenty miles outside of New Mexico when I buy this stupid looking postcard. It has a cactus on it. I must be diseased, or obsessed, or something.

I write out your address in purple ink. I imagine you reading what I've written on the other part of the card: "Texas sucked, like I thought it would."

And you'll know that I miss you.