left again
So that's it. Copious compiling of thoughts and feelings leads me to the conclusion that you will not do. You simply will not do.
Put on your shoes and kiss my hand and leave the foyer and we'll all feel better in the morning. And why is it that the adult decision always feels like this--anticlimatic and agonistic and downright rotten and empty, but oh so composed . . .
no catharsis, no passion, no price.
Is it the cost-benefit analysis here that throws me off so? What is the benefit of this--what is it? I avoid a romance that could get me over Dante and into you and another heartbreak to distract me from the last. And what is the point when it's always a waiting-to-break process? Loneliness becomes paradoxical, bitter, and full of bitten lips and bitten-off feelings, chewed fingers and tensed thighs.
For years after I got out of the hospital, my mother and my sister waited for me to break, but I guess I was somehow determined to break down boys instead, like boxes in a warehouse, flattened and stacked, one wasted year after another, spinning my wheels while spinning my tales.
All of this easy and smooth, like lighting one cigarette from the last smoldering butt, like lights on a pin ball machine, and me so strong and careless and thin and spinning like a top.
And then you, spinning through me and round me and now you say you are thinking about me lately and I erase your message because I know if I don't I'll just end up listening to it five times over a glass of wine till it says what I want--and then maybe even make a sloppy phonecall.
And you just have more of everything that I want than I thought I could ever find and it's still true that I love you and that I never want to be anyone's salvadora ever again, and that I need one of my own and men are so, so, so very bad at that.
And when I am feeling strong I can think of you as a positive experience. But now, half-way into my period and having just kicked out a curly-haired Russian who's just been ripped to bits by some beauty, I am too, just too weak to do anything but this.
Put on your shoes and kiss my hand and leave the foyer and we'll all feel better in the morning. And why is it that the adult decision always feels like this--anticlimatic and agonistic and downright rotten and empty, but oh so composed . . .
no catharsis, no passion, no price.
Is it the cost-benefit analysis here that throws me off so? What is the benefit of this--what is it? I avoid a romance that could get me over Dante and into you and another heartbreak to distract me from the last. And what is the point when it's always a waiting-to-break process? Loneliness becomes paradoxical, bitter, and full of bitten lips and bitten-off feelings, chewed fingers and tensed thighs.
For years after I got out of the hospital, my mother and my sister waited for me to break, but I guess I was somehow determined to break down boys instead, like boxes in a warehouse, flattened and stacked, one wasted year after another, spinning my wheels while spinning my tales.
All of this easy and smooth, like lighting one cigarette from the last smoldering butt, like lights on a pin ball machine, and me so strong and careless and thin and spinning like a top.
And then you, spinning through me and round me and now you say you are thinking about me lately and I erase your message because I know if I don't I'll just end up listening to it five times over a glass of wine till it says what I want--and then maybe even make a sloppy phonecall.
And you just have more of everything that I want than I thought I could ever find and it's still true that I love you and that I never want to be anyone's salvadora ever again, and that I need one of my own and men are so, so, so very bad at that.
And when I am feeling strong I can think of you as a positive experience. But now, half-way into my period and having just kicked out a curly-haired Russian who's just been ripped to bits by some beauty, I am too, just too weak to do anything but this.
posted by chavala at 10:17 PM
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