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Scraps

October 23, 2011

She told me she’s concerned. Because we are coded differently. We are coded for self-destruction. We’ve been designed with timers inside of us set to go off the moment we falter, the moment our constant vigilance wavers. It’s not often you meet someone who looks you in the eye and says “I know you. You’re like me.” It’s a blessing. It’s a comfort.

My thoughts are disjointed lately. I’m flitting from one thing to the next and trying to make sense. I’ve been lapsing into silence lately. Staring off into space trying not to panic, trying not to burst into tears every five minutes. I could tell you what’s wrong:

The world is ending. People are dying. I don’t know what I’m doing. I accidentally fell for the wrong man again. My grandmother remembers my name and my face but she may not tomorrow.

But that would be trite. The world is always ending. People are always dying. Sometimes I know what I’m doing. Sometimes I don’t. This fact is irrelevant. I may be on my way to hell, but at least I’m not standing still. And as for falling for the wrong man? I did this to myself.

She would bring us food because we never had any. Use your own glass, she would say. Because his glasses were probably filled with the tools he needed to live. There’s this thing tecatos do, they pick at their skin. They tear it apart. They use fingernails, they use tweezers. If they’re not marking their body one way, they’re doing it in another.

She asked me how I felt walking into that place. She tried to convince me it was fine. It was not fine. Nothing is fine. It’s not okay. A room filled with people staring, trying to remember who we are. I don’t want to talk about it, I said. Oh, you need to process, huh? Maybe save it for your writing? As if the writing is self-indulgent. As if I have no right to reserve my thoughts, my feelings, my anger, my sadness for this moment. We have the same blood, it’s true. This same blood that’s been pulled into vacuum and booted back in. This same blood filling the eyes of a woman who tells us there are three girls. Yes, one is missing. If you want to be exact, there are four. Two are missing. One is never coming back.

(I had a dream about her the other day. All four of us together, complete. I thought, how strange. I don’t feel as if anyone’s missing when it’s only two of us. But there we were, four pieces of a puzzle. And I woke up and I started sobbing. Because things feel in dreams the way they should every day. Real, present, prescient. I cannot set all wrongs right.)

I know too many words I shouldn’t.

Someone called me this week. I call him someone. He used to be someone. “I don’t feel right about the way things ended. I thought I could buy you a drink. Or you could tell me to go fuck myself.” I am not in the business of providing closure. I am vindictive, I am petty. I’ve been wronged. I don’t give a fuck about your feelings at this point. You should have cared more about mine when you had the chance. So no, I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to make you feel better. I don’t need you to make me feel better. I don’t feel the need to tell you to go fuck yourself because I have bigger fish than you to fry. Save it for someone else. I’ve moved on. To the living.

I own a pair of panties that I keep hidden away in the back of my underwear drawer. They were my favorite, once. I don’t wear them unless I absolutely have to. I don’t wear them unless I am absolutely able to shut down a part of myself. Nothing terrible happened while I was wearing them (or…not wearing them). They’ve been used. Overused. I’ve worn them for four different lovers. The last was a stranger. A nice enough boy, but not one I want to remember. Sometimes I go on autopilot. I’m not proud of it. Sometimes I’m not there. I watch myself. I wish I could explain it, but I can’t.

The rain’s hitting your legs, you forgot to wear tights. You didn’t want to, you didn’t want to remember how they felt when he slid them off your legs. Pulling when he reached your foot, sending his hands up to dig his fingers into your thighs, to bruise you and claim ownership, if only for a little while.

I don’t think he’d tell me anything I’d like to hear. I’m sorry, repeated incessantly, does not fix anything.

There’s a view from the BQE that stills my heart every single time. I’m lucky people love me.

I can accept the fact that people will hurt me in this life, that’s what people do. What I find unacceptable is the unwillingness on their part to acknowledge that this is what they’ve done, they shouldn’t have done it, that I have feelings too, that I never deserved to get dragged into these messes in the first place.

I was hoping you’d tell me you missed me, even though we both know you shouldn’t say these things. I was hoping you’d tell me you stay up late thinking about what could be, what could have been. But I don’t think you do. This is the tragedy. It’s all connected, he said, voice fading away on the recording. Yes, I think it is. But it’s not good enough. I don’t communicate well, he told me, but I’ve been here waiting to listen. You can tell me anything. You can ask me anything. You’ve declined.

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4 Comments leave one →
  1. October 23, 2011 11:57 pm

    “And I woke up and I started sobbing. Because things feel in dreams the way they should every day.”

    This.

    No other smart words from me this this week. But a knowing look and a nod and a hug.

  2. October 24, 2011 12:15 am

    “I was hoping you’d tell me you missed me, even though we both know you shouldn’t say these things. I was hoping you’d tell me you stay up late thinking about what could be, what could have been. But I don’t think you do. This is the tragedy.” This is one of many parts.

    I feel you. Deeply. Like fiends who know, truly know, craving. I’m moved.

  3. October 24, 2011 11:38 am

    “I’ve moved on. To the living.” More than scraps here, more like maybe molten scrap metal of an endless junkyard. Sharp and heavy, every one of these threads has more, but you’ve cut them up, and I could understand why.

  4. Little Yellow permalink
    October 24, 2011 11:00 pm

    You look and feel everylittlething and you react and think about it in context and out of it and put in the energy everyone craves, but rarely gives back. And I love you. And your breasts.

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