Evans Blue sampling
I am always asked to explain myself. Oftentimes it’s the distractable way I go about everything in my life–a little here, a little there–that provokes questions. Sometimes it’s my irrational nature. More so than not, it’s my error in judgement.
Someone dear to me begs the question ‘why?’ with more frequency than anyone. I still cannot speak the words with eye contact, so I rehearse again. My heart, as much as I hate it, has softened over time, soaked in emotions I haven’t quite drowned out, so I feel I’ve grown up past ranting. Never could hold a grudge.
‘How did we get here?’
‘You’ve assured me I’m alone. You’ve made your point.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t you mean how did I get here?’
‘No. But it’s all good. It’s up to you. You’re the one who walked away. Maybe you should exclude yourself from the question.’
‘You’ve excluded me a long time ago.’
I realize I don’t delve into much detail with anyone else, mostly because they’ve become immaterial to my points, and are dull in comparison. Ha. This one in particular is my ’one who got away’, and why, after many questions, I’ll explain why the most substantially fucked up. Maybe it’ll help. Maybe, like I chastise myself, it won’t help at all because I’m too stubborn, or too far gone. It’s not over yet, so stay tuned…
“She’s letting go of convictions to release the ghost inside
To release all the suffering of a cross and a girl
I sing ‘I love you’ way too much, so I’ll say ‘I hate you’ for tonight”
I got here with a look. Derek Zoolander (I sometimes find it necessary to pull inspiration from fictional characters because my own circumstances often feel unreal) had a trademark look that got him through everything, and so did I. I wasn’t the one who dished it out, though. The first time I saw it was in the middle of my shift at Old Navy last February. I had been expecting a visit from my army friend who was bringing along someone for an introduction.
‘You’d like him.’
‘Really? Thanks M, but I don’t need your dating services!’
‘He saw you, and he wants to meet you. He’s my best friend, you’ll want to meet him.’
‘Really?’
‘You’ll fall in love with him, I swear.’
‘Don’t swear.’
‘Okay, I promise.’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow then.’
I glanced over, M in his BDU’s catching my eye, and damn near ran over a kid. I pushed my ladder aside, and approached. I could feel my cheeks burning, and I fought it, afraid I’d catch flame. The moment I made eye contact I got that look. It was endearing, gentle, mysterious, and sultry. It was a lot of things, and I wanted to see it all the time. I was a sucker.
“We’re broken but we fit together just right
You know I saw the black inside your eyes
I saw they were eclipsed by mine and they looked just right…
But don’t wait for me. And don’t trust in me. Don’t fall for me
Even when you know you’re falling for me”
That’s how it started. (Gosh, am I only at the beginning?) Every night I’d sit on the that (amazing!) sofa, I’d turn to my right (his left), just for the look. It was like making something really difficult–I’d put so much effort into getting it, but the end result was well worth the time spent. He looked at me like I held the world in a thimble. I crumbled, I caved, I sank deeper, I lost all control.
“There’s just so many things that you never needed to say
Like I’m your other soul, but you can love them all
Your tears are meaningless, they’re written on your face
Just like your empty words, just like the chemical
Just like the disease that stains your lips tonight
You are the disease that’s in my life”
About a year ago I asked him the same question: ‘how did we get here, [Auto]?’ He delved into details I’d never gotten. It was the other side of the story, and the look, and why I’d gotten it, and each time since then.
‘I was taking a swing through the mall on my break. I still had my uniform on so I couldn’t come in. I’m not sure I would have anyway. Sometimes I don’t have any balls.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I saw you in the window one day, and I just stopped and watched you. Yeah, I sound like a pervert, but I couldn’t help it.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘I told M that night when he called. I was asking him if I should go talk to you, and he started asking me what you looked like, and what store you were in’
‘Really?’
‘I said I had to talk to you. The long red hair, how you were talking with your hands and laughing, how you turned around. I wanted to watch you in slow motion. He stopped me right there and said he knew you, known you for years. So he brought me in.’
‘Wow. I–um, didn’t know that. Thanks.’
‘So here we are.’
I won’t detail the entire sordid story. I have so many times before, it’d be redundant, and frankly a little too much information. Someone asked me a few nights ago ‘Why’d you stay?’ It was a simple, direct question, and I can handle that. I’m not sure I can always properly articulate or organize my thoughts, but I’ve done my best before. What had me taken aback and at a loss for words was the past tense of the question.
‘I-I-I…well, um, it was hard. I, I couldn’t not.’
I made no sense at all trying to explain myself while avoiding the look, mainly because it’s personal and sounds ridiculous. How can I say I could see myself leaving, walking out and never talking to him, never laughing with him, never being touched by him again, but I couldn’t feel myself without him. There was no way I could do something I didn’t want to. Who quits smoking when they don’t want to? No one, it’s an addiction. See my point?
“You’re not the first girl to draw her fears on her arms
In hopes to capture all the memories that hunted you down
You can sew your lips shut with your heartstrings
Cause God knows that you don’t need them to hold yourself together
But don’t look down because I don’t know
If falling is fatal from this height I know
I should have never held you up this high”
So after all this, how did I get here? Or for his sake, how did we get here? Because, all those little moments were a fair trade to me. Every night I sat by myself, every tear, every bitten lip and worry, every heartbreaking comment from his lips…they were all worth sitting there, getting that look from the glow of the television, or from flat on my back. It’s masochistic, immature, foolish, reckless–the list goes on. In the same way I see people rubber-necking at a traffic accident, I want to see it all again for myself, just so I can re-affirm I’ve done the right thing in running the opposite direction.
“You should step outside your skin
Something tells me, that we were meant to be
But how can that be?
You run on evil, I run on fumes and stale air
When she came out, she brought her anger, she left her sympathy
Behind the walls she built for me
So we start spinning
You wouldn’t want to let us go easy
Or you just might become too weak…you wouldn’t want to let him down easy
Or he just might become the promise
I want you for who you are
So you can stay inside your skin
Oh something tells me love isn’t enough
But how can that be?
You’re not so evil, I’m not so good…
I am the voice you’ll never get
I am the one
I am the promise and the threat”
That’s all I’ve got. I’m tired. I’m a child kept out too late–I want to run back home to my bed. I’ve found solace in something, someone, but I can’t shake what I see when I close my eyes. I can’t kill ghosts of my past; I already let them die a slow death. It’s supposed to work out in the end, eventually, after a fashion, and so it has…am I wrong?