APPETENCE AND MALICE

It’s shameful, actually, the way I act towards you.  But, (and maybe you’d understand) there is nothing, no one, that hurts more or is better for me than you, nothing that eases my mind or breaks my heart as much as the knowledge that you’re here. And maybe it’s just love that’s the cause of such hysteria, but I’ve made too many excuses already.

“Forget it, okay? Just go”. But you wouldn’t move, you’d sit, looking bored, uninterested, as you’d been inured to such irrational behavior. “I’m serious though, leave.” You’d stare, blankly, before calmly rising. “Okay.” And that was it. You would search for the brown soles that so often graced your feet, and make your way to the door. “Come back,” I’d call after you, annoyed that you’d even consider going. “You told me to leave.” And suddenly my face would be red, my eyes wet, and I’d realize my absurdity- how pathetic, puerile, I was to tell you to go, just so you’d stay, so you’d maybe scoot your seat closer to mine. “No, please. Come sit. Please.” I’d hear you retreat, quietly, backing a few feet away from the door. “I don’t know what you want me to do. You told me to go, I’m going.” “I want you to stay, please, stay.” And you would make your way back down the hallway, stand in the doorway. “Everything I do is wrong.”

But how could I tell you that everything you do is right? That I know of no other that would sit in the room deemed forbidden and watch quietly as I sorted through faded construction paper and cursive letters that were meant for one that would never encounter them again. Still, I see more and more everyday, that I’ve drained you of what little sympathy you had for my meager heartaches. So, I’ll promise, in vain, not to drench the kitchen floor, leave black streaks on the sheets and pillows, I’ll promise to be okay. 

And I know you don’t care for freckles, but maybe you could excuse the specks that plague my nose and love me anyway.

If you happen to see this,
Know that I love you. 
I hope the night is kind
Your sleep, restful,
Your dreams, sweet.
I love you. 
I love you. 

We sat atop borrowed leather that hid in the shadows, giggling and whispering, singing the sweeter lines with lips pressed against ears. 
We sat atop cool-colored stripes, foreheads pushed together, hands clasped behind necks, speaking seriously, words of reassurance, of promise.
We sat side by side, hands in between legs, hands on steering wheels, eyes fixated on eyes fixated on the road, smiling tiredly, comfortably.

“I worry” you said. “About you. About how you’d be, if…” and I shook the thought from my head, because I knew how I’d be. And I’m becoming more and more aware that, if you were to go, then I’d have no choice but to follow. “Its nice, different from anyone else. I know you care. I know you love me. I’m okay with you. And I’d like to think that I’m the only one that can make you okay”. You were right, you know. You are the only one. Your warmth beside me is the only thing to settle my stomach, ease my mind. We settled it, I think, that night. It was made clear: we were in love. That was it. There was no doubt, no turning back.

I sat atop tile, beside foreheads against ceramic, shaking, sweaty skin, a turning stomach, waiting.
I sat in the gutter, fingers playing in grainy remains of broken asphalt, bare feet against the cold damp street, listening to the moans and wails on the other side of the phone that made my stomach ache, heart drop. 

“You should go”. I could hardly make out the words. Your voice was deep, cracking, distant and unfamiliar, tired and sick. “I’m sorry. I’m sick. You should go. I can’t be good. I can’t. I’m trying. I tried. I’m sorry. I can’t. I’m sick. Go. Go.” The words were only stopped by minutes of wailing and groaning- the reaction to…I’m not sure. I don’t want to know. “You’d be better off without me. I’m no good for you. I’m sorry. I’ve got to go now. I’ve got to go. I’m so sorry”. 

I sat, late into the night. Alone. Lined papers with your small scrawl scattered on the bed around me. Papers that promised “forever” and “always”. Papers with notes and claims that I believed. That I’ll always believe. I just pray you’ll let me stay, love. Let me stay. 

I sat down to write you a letter, but did not finish, because the hope and promise that comes with handwritten words on paper would exceed the reality of the note, and I do not wish to disappoint you. I only wish to heal your skin and quiet your mind, though I’m not sure of my capability to do that. And so I’ll tell you that I love you twenty-three times a day and hope that you’ll believe me. I can’t fix you but I can lend you my hand for as long as you need something steady to hold on to. I’m alright. You will be, too. 

My face turned hot at
Slurred words of indignation
Towards one whose body
(I assumed)
Was disposed next to his.
I thought of your stomach,
And did it act the way
Mine did, when I saw you where
(I imagined)
She is now. 
I hoped it didn’t but, 
I hoped it did.
Maybe then, your heart
Wouldn’t be all mine.
Maybe then, when I do wrong,
It won’t be so bad. 

thirteens.

She waited.
New white shoes on red carpet that his since been removed, anxiously anticipating. He accompanied Her, and reluctantly let Her go, to Him. And I’m sure he wasn’t the only one unsure of the union; for She was white houses and Sunday mornings, and He was brown carpets and broken plates and forced trips around the corner for cigarettes. But they kept quiet as They spoke words of commitment and care, words She would honor for one hundred and ninety seven months, to the day. Words that, I’d like to imagine, He’d honor forever. 

They got in line.
Clean black shoes on dirt and grass, one pair behind the other, patiently waiting. One by one they’d step up, force cold metal into loose dirt, lift and toss, glancing into the recently opened ground. That one would retreat, and the next would approach, force, lift, toss, glance. Clean black shoes on dirt and grass, waiting for their turn to help put Him in the ground. 

But They had sworn, one hundred and ninety seven 13th’s ago- ‘til death do them part.
And that it did.

You entered the night
With content somnolence. 
Comfortable, warmed by
Familiar skin,
Staunch love, 
Wrapped in faded
Blues and greens,
Wrapped in
Clandestine affection.
You emerge from the night,
Just the same. 
The sun saw you home,
But snuck away far too soon.
And maybe it was the rain,
The gray skies,
Cimmerian air,
That re-instilled this sort of
Hyctophobia,
That placed the
Cold metal in your stomach,
That left you catechizing,
Asking for reassurance,
Of truths that,
I know,
You know.
Natheless, there’s little
I wouldn’t give
To sit beside you,
Hot tea and cold tile,
To melt the metal away,
Make the darkness a
Little more
Bearable. 

Dirty hands pulled tawny fabric down to conceal the unrefined hide; as if covering it would mask the grievous shame that accompanied the knowledge that such petty insecurities had caused rough keratin to pierce such soft skin. Dark eyes drifted before blankly connecting, nonreactive towards recent acrimony, once again accepting of the undeserved position of a scapegoat for irrationality. Soft skin and dark eyes retreated towards further penance for wrongs that soft skin hadn’t done, while insecurity and irrationality absconded. Soft skin was left untouched except for scratches and unjust defacement. Insecurity and irrationality was left untouched except for undeserved affection.

My eyes often
Sell me out.
I know I frequent
Harsh glares.
Indifferent gazes and
Wandering focus.
Know, though,
That I’m not wishing to be
Somewhere else,
I’m just wishing
Not to be.