sitting on the edge, kicking my legs

Sarah Mclachlan ‘You Want Me Too’

I read people, and I read all the words they write, in their head, on paper. I read the words they would have written had they not been beaten to it. Those phrases, ideas, longing desires, hearts broken, guilt, remorse…they are all taken down in the songs we love, and the songs we highlight.

And it hurts, if for nothing more than an old memory, or an old thought I should bury deep in the past where it belongs and never mention, should I worry sick with repercussions that may follow…………

give a little, get a little

Avenged Sevenfold ‘Almost Easy’

Sometimes, you’ll think life is a lost cause. Why? Is it the ones you love leaving you alone? Is it being too blind to find the light you’ve been holding out for? Or is it your own disappointments that make you feel hopeless, helpless?

The thing is, you’ll never have it the way you want it. Even when you’ve found the right fit, and everything falls in place, there are gaps in perfection–the silence–that makes you wonder…………

Even when you’re happy, there are those times you can’t let go of, the ones long gone or long passed, who bring a tender thought or a whistful smile.

You have to deal.

Acceptance is not a cure-all, but a way to pass the time and slip through those miserable hours and the days and years you’ll spend happy. You’ll put all you have into someone, and realize in the end your efforts look weak. You’ll get a few words in return, too late. You’ll do nothing, turn and walk away, and get an outpouring of affection. You’ll take it all with open arms and shut out all else insignificant. Either way, you’ll need to accept what you get, what you give, and how you receive it.

If someone spites you, are they a lost cause? Or are they a cause at a loss? Maybe all they needed was someone to stand by them. Turn and help, love, accept, give everything. I need a replacement.

hypocrite

Staind ‘Tangled Up In You’

I’m starting to realize now what an old flame tried to reason to my deaf ears. You see, he’d beg, she’s here. If you were here, I’d still be holding you instead. But you pushed me away, and I figured it didn’t matter anyway.

The thing is, I’m clinging to Mr. Big Last night, and my mind drifted to Auto…wondering if he was here, would his regret take flesh-and-blood form to be here, holding me? Is it fair to ask anyone to love you? Shouldn’t he just want to love me, without provocation, competition, or seperation?

But he doesn’t. I should have waited before I dove, head-first into something and someone I don’t deserve. Someone I really, truly love. I hurt when he hurts, cry when he cries, feel exactly what he feels.

Focused, I need to make a decision. No more. No dwelling on the past. I have someone about to stand in front of me–wounded perhaps–and apprehensive, angry but who has been by my side for what seems longer than the span of the fucked up, emotional ride with Auto.

I’ll just ask him to forgive me, and we’ll turn our backs on my past together.

Have and have not (part one?)

Ben Folds ‘Still Fighting It’

When you’re in primary school they teach you to make decisions with a list of pros and cons. Seeing one list longer than the other helps your judgement. I haven’t done that in years, relying instead on the overwhelming feelings, obvious common sense, or arbitrary emotions. I’d like to put it to the test.

keeping the dream alive

Trapt ‘Ready When You Are’

I saw that new Dane Cook/Kate Hudson movie, My Best Friend’s Girl. It made me think. Ouch.

I’ve always wanted to turn out a combination of Marilyn Monroe and Princess Diana. I wanted the grace, the high esteem, and the recognized respect, but still be the unbridaled, sultry woman we all wish we were.

In the movie, one of the characters reasons the girl he wants is the best he’ll ever get–but is he the best she’ll ever get? Does she deserve better than him hanging around?

I wonder the same myself. We all want that edgy bad-boy treating us like shit and plucking our heart strings. Then again, what are we thinking taking pause when great, under-rated, amazing boys, er, guys…men?…swoop in and turn everything right-side-up again. Is that fair? Maybe this is the best I’ll ever get, but am I the best for him? Or should I go back to the fuck-up I rightly deserve?

In a way I miss that life, hanging around, hanging on–like a bad temp-job–just waiting to be let go. Nothing was ever reliable. There were no sleep overs, no personal affects left behind or baskets of necessities for the comfort of extended or serial lay-overs. Life was not good, but as a lost girl, I lived for the fleeting minutes–or hours if I was lucky–that it was.

just the way it turns out sometimes

Seether ‘The Gift’

There was never anything to do. It was always the same routine, day-in day-out. He felt pathetic. It took everything he had to get up every day and go to work. He hated that fucking place, always doing their bitch-work. Grin and bear it again. He showered, and left. On the drive to work he saw her, ponytail swinging, highlighted by interrupted streams of orange morning sun. He wanted to slow the car and watch her, drop gears just to enjoy her alone for another few seconds, but it would ruin everything. She would see him, and it would be her and him again, and not just her. He sped past and left her behind, and she didn’t seem to notice he was ever there in the first place. The feeling passed as it always did for him, and he went about the rest of the day loathing and embittered.

She felt something. That shivering sigh of a feeling you get after she made love, er, fucked. It was there and then it was gone. Through the nose and out the mouth, she thought, can’t loose sync breathing while I’m running. Too tired already. The truth was, she’d lost it in each moment with him that didn’t seem to matter. She saw his best and his worst, the way his face changed when she walked through the door, and the glassy-eyed, faux admiration after a few hours of drinking and pointless television. She saw how lost he was, and as much as she wanted to waive her hands, take his and make him feel her heart, see that she was living and breathing in front of him–with him–and she wouldn’t leave her position, she couldn’t. You can’t make them do anything they don’t want to do. You can’t make someone love you. She was tired, she couldn’t breathe. She was gasping and her sides hurt. She was crying. She went home and spent the rest of the day letting it linger.

He locked eyes with her, studied her until he broke concentration and flipped her over on her back to finish the job. She’s a sweet girl, he thought, but she’s not mine. He watched her squirm in her ribbons and lace, and he felt like a little boy again. There’s nothing like this after eight consecutive hours of eatting shit and pretending to love it. It wasn’t even worth the money. He thought this was definately worth money, and how amusing and offensive if he offered. She wasn’t his whore. She was more like his concubine–not quite the same, but somehow he knew they both felt the only thing missing was a payment. He wondered how–if at all–offended she would be if he jokingly offered her money. He imagined her face crooked with a playful, wry smile. He smiled at the thought. He was always relieved and ashamed that she left without argument or apparent guilt. He’d let her be for awhile after this though. He could see the reflection in her eyes, see what she saw, and he knew it was best to cut her loose. His self control was slipping and he wanted both arms wrapped around her, so instead, he’d push more distance between them and try to wean himself off his whole life here. He was overwhelmed, and right then and there, between her legs, he decided to get the Hell outta Dodge.

She watched him look at her, then look away. She didn’t wonder what he was thinking, she wasn’t overtaken with emotion, and she didn’t want to stay. She knew better. She knew she couldn’t say I love you either. She felt she was owed him saying it first, but he wouldn’t, and that was alright too. She saw him crack a smile, not hidden quickly enough by a rough kiss below the collar bone. Just then it was a good night but it wouldn’t last. She’d love to stay if she was welcome, and not just the night. She’d love to make him feel connected again, but it was a lost cause. Right then, with him above her, she decided she’d let him go since he wanted it so badly.

He didn’t, and he did. He pushed her away all the time, but he never let her go. Even ten hours away, he still tried to hold onto her, silently, subtly, and still without emotional involvement. Finally, he had to say it, but he wouldn’t say it. He’d only go so far–out of respect to her, and personal pride. He was sorry, and he was regretful. He was tearing her apart, and he knew they both felt the other one was the one who got away. It was too late. He didn’t want to talk to her anymore. He ended it like most of their endings at night, when he was back home; he did it with a song.

Trapt ‘Who’s Going Home With You Tonight?’

keeping up my end

I’ve woken up every morning the past week with faith. It has stared me in the face, literally, reminding me I need hope, strength, and love. Everyone needs a little faith, some more than others.

breaking down/breaking it down

Cary Brothers ‘Something’

My pink nightie smells like cologne and a stale house–like no one lived there. Auto hardly lived there, even when he was there. He just wasn’t there. I keep it in the corner, under stockings and corsets and silk restraints, folded up, preserved, and feeling guilty. Me that is. Although, if my lingerie drawer could look or feel guilty, it would be blood red and hide deeper in the abscesses of the top drawer.

Do I hate how perfect things are? Do I hate the timing of the whole situation, or him for making it impossible to not feel like I’m throwing every good thing I could ever hope for, away? Do I hate the restriction of not hanging by a thread and waiting around, not walking through fallen leaves and chasing ducks in the park? Or do I just hate myself?

I should be going through these miniature crises a year from now–minimum–but I’m not. I’m going to shift the blame because it’s compounding to an increasingly more uncomfortable situation and just say it is not my fault. Usually men go through this. Stereotypical, yes, perhaps even laced with an accusatory tone, but it is what it is. I’ll be the first to admit I’ve adopted a more logical, masculine way of looking at things since I was a little girl.

‘When you know you know. And I know.’

That’s when it all started. It wasn’t with those three words, nope, not at all. The thing of it was, I did know, I do know. It doesn’t get any better than this. Somehow though, the bachelor(ette) has left things unsaid, undone, people unseen (if even barely visible in the dark…). I want to yell at him that I’m suffocating and tell him he’s too perfect, I’m too scared, too young, too undecided, and it’s all too soon. None of that is true. All of that is true. I’m an idiot.

under my hat

Catherine Feeny ‘Mr. Blue’

I’d like to know why the past comes back to haunt us? Why are guidelines outlined, like a fool-proof plan to circumvent disaster? It’s always bothered me–those out-of-the-blue pieces of information telling you you’re thought of, but somehow it does not make me feel comforted, bashfully pleased, or even flattered. I’m washed with insecurity and shame. Intentional it is not, but subliminal, it most certainly has to be.

It was a just in case.

So I know, fucking someone else while I’m trying to get my head on straight is grounds to drop everything and walk away.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a proponent of straying, cheating, or any form of secret rendezvous. Then again, I’m sure I look less moral, no longer pure white the longer my past bobs back to the surface like a buoy cut loose. I just felt betrayed. My silver lining is slipping through the cracks, and all these renewed affections help no more than empty nods after I-love-you’s.

My surprise, insistence, vigorous reply, is intimidating, but hollow. Of course I’ve thought of it–taking a hiatus and revisting the past. Finishing what I started, hoped for, have now but cannot have, are all regularities now, and temptations. However, reacting to whims and other improper, careless, and hurtful behaviours are some of a few reasons why men hate women. I hate women, so as logic follows, my self-loathing–most especially now–is in the red.

How close did I come to saying it? So close. But I felt a quickened heartbeat and baited breath…as much as I hate having the power, I felt it, and swore I’d bite my tongue and only use it to make him infinitely happy.

decisions about indecision

Hootie and the Blowfish ‘Can’t Find the Time to Tell You’

I’m not going to lie, I kind of miss being depressed. I miss being alone. Three months ago I had endless hours of spare time to ponder my hopes and dreams, and wonder who-what-when-where-why…and how. Now, it seems all laid out for me. All I need to solve the equation is a relatively short, mysterious period of time.

That’s right, I’m talking about every girl’s dream. We all want to get married. Dresses, jewelry, cake, flowers, friends…what’s a more perfect day?

Then again, am I still so engrained with my not-so-feminine nature, that makes me tense up and withdraw at the thought of the whole situation. I can’t see myself freaking and ducking out of this relationship, or a potential marriage. It’s a serious thing, and it happened seriously fast. But, I could see myself back to the good that wasn’t really good at all, alone with my music, scotch, and keyboard. I could see repeating my mistakes of rushing to North Carolina, but taking the extra distance farther south. Do I love Auto? Do I still love him? Can you love two people at the same time? Do I honestly buy into that man-myth/excuse?

No.

It’s a phase. Periodically I realize my mother was right. It’s hard to remember trying to rise above her high standards of me, but now I see why she always set the bar out of reach–every day I’m beneath it I’m reminded of where I should be, and it’s not here. You’re not going to finish school, you’re not going to have a good job, and you’re not going to get married, she’d say. Well, I’m in the right place.

I’m rambling.

So am I headed in the right direction to failure, or a planned-out, all-of-a-sudden future? Which is the lesser of evils? Are either of them bad? Would I be happy puttering through things after my own fashion–in the trademark amusing and jaded way I always have–or will I hang a perfect photo of a rainbows and sunshine life on my wall?

Will I let myself be happy?