One:
You were the first one. You told me I was pretty without running away. You asked for kisses without your friends jeering you on. You stood up to your brother for me, even though he was bigger than both of us. You held my hand, held my face, held my smiles and my laughter and all the late-night minutes on my phone in the warm, strong palms of your clumsy too-big hands. You are the first one I began to believe. I was careful, raised to be cautious, knew I was not yet ready to fly on wet-with-their-newness wings and yet. And yet. You were the first one I began to believe, and you were the first one to scare me when you yelled and cursed and raged and showed me that love isn't always as stable as balanced equations. Sometimes, it is a volatile thing, unbalanced and changing--and sometimes, it is dangerous.
Two:
I never thought to get close to you. You were the thief, stealing my happiness and my peace before you even learned my name. You were another's when I met you, your arms always reaching, your lips always toughing, your name always said next to hers. But in high school, these things never last. A day passed, and suddenly my name was being breathed with yours. You appeared, like magic, from the thinness of the air behind me. I saw your arms around me, around her, pulling us closer to you and away from each other, and our sisters-forever-and-always bond began to break then, wound scar-tight around your two wrists. I had no love for your wrists. I still can't remember if I had love for you, or if I only wanted the pain you doled out, so generous, as often as you touched the skin of my stomach, which you said reminded you of new paper and snowy days.
Three:
U: Hahaha. Thanks. =p
Me: No prob.
Me: You know, I meant that, though.
U: what?
Me: That I love you.
U: awww
U: <3 you too
Me: I have loved you almost since I knew you. A lot. And it killed me that you were so happy to be just friends, when you knew--I know you knew--that I almost needed more.
Me: But I have to thank you, now, for never telling me that you loved me too. It killed me; I must have died twice a day for those three years. but I think it was for the best.
Me: I'm glad we're such good friends still. <3
U: me too. like i said, i luv you.
I wish I had actually typed that at some point.
Four:
You were my brother, and I loved you while I hated you. Your attention surprised me. I cried for the pain in my arm, in the needle, in my hands, in my spirit aching inside of me--and for you. I cried for the way you hated yourself, standing there with that lousy bit of poetry crumpled in your hand, hands that were always too big, too hot, too angry, too loud for me to hold easily. You took your hat, warm and worn in and soft and reeking of your sweat, and tossed it on my head. You shrugged off my annoyance when it fell over my eyes. You were wounded every time I handed it back.
Five:
You smoked. That should have been my first hint. I fell in love with your photograph before I ever met you, all blue light and brick wall and so untouchably cool. Two months later, I learned the ink in your skin, knew the taste of your piercings, had seen more indie films than I ever wanted to. I knew I should never have touched you. I should never have gone back to your place. I should never have let you hold me. I should never have stopped listening for what I didn't want to hear, because learning to listen is the hardest thing in the world. I can prove that to you. It took six months, three bruised ribs, two scars, and a knee that still bothers me sometimes late at night, before I could hear myself screaming again. It took me four months of therapy to learn to walk away again. And I have yet to learn to stop hating myself.
Six:
You were a mistake. I see that now. I am so, so sorry. I wish you were sorry, too. I think you knew I was your mistake, too.
Seven:
Of everything I've ever moved, you said, I moved you most. You were beautiful when I found you, lovely and unformed. I learned your mind and you learned mine, you knew my middle name before you saw the curve of my spine, the pale of my thigh, the hidden soft places that I had learned to keep so well-covered, because those places scar easiest. You left your mark there and for a time, that was love. You are the only one I have loved yet. I don't know when I grew tired of it. I didn't realize the first time that I look into you, and your newness, and the tiredness and anger and doubt of my own reflection. When it was all I could see, I simply stopped looking. Now, when we pass each other in moving masses, rushing to the next big idea, we smile. When we get coffee, and talk, we remember a little too often how the other one felt and sounded and tasted. We fall too often into your bed, shedding skin, looking for the closeness that we have only found with each other, and leaving new scars in old embraces.
This, too, shall come to pass.
You were the first one. You told me I was pretty without running away. You asked for kisses without your friends jeering you on. You stood up to your brother for me, even though he was bigger than both of us. You held my hand, held my face, held my smiles and my laughter and all the late-night minutes on my phone in the warm, strong palms of your clumsy too-big hands. You are the first one I began to believe. I was careful, raised to be cautious, knew I was not yet ready to fly on wet-with-their-newness wings and yet. And yet. You were the first one I began to believe, and you were the first one to scare me when you yelled and cursed and raged and showed me that love isn't always as stable as balanced equations. Sometimes, it is a volatile thing, unbalanced and changing--and sometimes, it is dangerous.
Two:
I never thought to get close to you. You were the thief, stealing my happiness and my peace before you even learned my name. You were another's when I met you, your arms always reaching, your lips always toughing, your name always said next to hers. But in high school, these things never last. A day passed, and suddenly my name was being breathed with yours. You appeared, like magic, from the thinness of the air behind me. I saw your arms around me, around her, pulling us closer to you and away from each other, and our sisters-forever-and-always bond began to break then, wound scar-tight around your two wrists. I had no love for your wrists. I still can't remember if I had love for you, or if I only wanted the pain you doled out, so generous, as often as you touched the skin of my stomach, which you said reminded you of new paper and snowy days.
Three:
U: Hahaha. Thanks. =p
Me: No prob.
Me: You know, I meant that, though.
U: what?
Me: That I love you.
U: awww
U: <3 you too
Me: I have loved you almost since I knew you. A lot. And it killed me that you were so happy to be just friends, when you knew--I know you knew--that I almost needed more.
Me: But I have to thank you, now, for never telling me that you loved me too. It killed me; I must have died twice a day for those three years. but I think it was for the best.
Me: I'm glad we're such good friends still. <3
U: me too. like i said, i luv you.
I wish I had actually typed that at some point.
Four:
You were my brother, and I loved you while I hated you. Your attention surprised me. I cried for the pain in my arm, in the needle, in my hands, in my spirit aching inside of me--and for you. I cried for the way you hated yourself, standing there with that lousy bit of poetry crumpled in your hand, hands that were always too big, too hot, too angry, too loud for me to hold easily. You took your hat, warm and worn in and soft and reeking of your sweat, and tossed it on my head. You shrugged off my annoyance when it fell over my eyes. You were wounded every time I handed it back.
Five:
You smoked. That should have been my first hint. I fell in love with your photograph before I ever met you, all blue light and brick wall and so untouchably cool. Two months later, I learned the ink in your skin, knew the taste of your piercings, had seen more indie films than I ever wanted to. I knew I should never have touched you. I should never have gone back to your place. I should never have let you hold me. I should never have stopped listening for what I didn't want to hear, because learning to listen is the hardest thing in the world. I can prove that to you. It took six months, three bruised ribs, two scars, and a knee that still bothers me sometimes late at night, before I could hear myself screaming again. It took me four months of therapy to learn to walk away again. And I have yet to learn to stop hating myself.
Six:
You were a mistake. I see that now. I am so, so sorry. I wish you were sorry, too. I think you knew I was your mistake, too.
Seven:
Of everything I've ever moved, you said, I moved you most. You were beautiful when I found you, lovely and unformed. I learned your mind and you learned mine, you knew my middle name before you saw the curve of my spine, the pale of my thigh, the hidden soft places that I had learned to keep so well-covered, because those places scar easiest. You left your mark there and for a time, that was love. You are the only one I have loved yet. I don't know when I grew tired of it. I didn't realize the first time that I look into you, and your newness, and the tiredness and anger and doubt of my own reflection. When it was all I could see, I simply stopped looking. Now, when we pass each other in moving masses, rushing to the next big idea, we smile. When we get coffee, and talk, we remember a little too often how the other one felt and sounded and tasted. We fall too often into your bed, shedding skin, looking for the closeness that we have only found with each other, and leaving new scars in old embraces.
This, too, shall come to pass.
No comments:
Post a Comment