It’s so hard hiding you in the sheets of fiction. I have buried you and me in a sea of prose, memories, if you will. I have stripped beds of sheets and your scent and I find your hair less and less and your bobby pins have all but been gathered up and tucked away. There is something about keeping things ordered that I find unappealing, call it childish, but the messes, the chaos that tripping over a book bag and a pile of books bring my life some sense of balance. I’m not the slave worker I probably should be, I doubt I will ever be grateful for the opportunity to make money for someone else. Color me solipsistic narcissist, that’s probably the only shade I accurately portray.
The memories, though, they line my dreams and keep me praying for things I don’t believe in. I find myself hiding any optimistic end game because it makes me depressed. Find what you love, and make it your life. And then chase it way, because that’s what happens when I don’t keep myself in check. I’ve destroyed my happiness with apathy and a refusal to be anything resembling a welcoming gamble. There is no God in these keystrokes, nothing that could be misconstrued as holy, I am mistakes on top of the worst intentions. If left to my own reflexes, my own instincts, I would burn and butcher anything and everything that applied the slightest bit of pressure. “Tell me a story”, you ask me late at night or in the middle of the day, wanting some anecdote of how I love you in secret, how maybe there is some part of me that you haven’t seen that will carve the same smile on your face as finding your favorite something after being lost for months. I have nothing left to surprise you with. All the gold and glory of my past, you know. So I’ll tell you this, I used to fear being a serial killer in my teens, consciousness and human interactions have always been something I struggle to understand. I don’t fear this anymore, but my sociopathic tendencies still linger, like a scar, like the off skin colored splotches that line my arms and knuckles. I know I will not hesitate to protect my family. Maybe this is good.
Maybe this is me being vulnerable, maybe not. Maybe this is me reaching out for someone to give me a hug, but then I’ll probably recoil at the moment fingerprints brush my skin. I hate people. You know that, you know that’s the reason I hide behind monitors that cover windows. I am lonely, but I refuse to settle, I’m not wired to do so, as you like to joke about sometimes. Everything is temporary, yet you find me surrounded by desperate grabs and maintaining some sort of permanence. My car is twelve years old and dying, but I refuse to just turn her in. I know I will be stranded someplace for hours when she finally dies, I’ll probably cry. I find more beauty in inanimate objects than I do in most people. Don’t get me started on Matt. I never want him to leave me, no matter how my back aches and breaks in the morning. How you think I enjoy ripping people out of my life so easily. I hate it. God, I hate how easy it is. Some people are just bad though, or useless in our lives. Dead weight will drain you faster than you realize.
I just passed 600 words and I’m realizing this is the longest thing I’ve written in quite some time. I can only write to you it seems. You are all that gives me vision, everything else is a grey that gets distracted by my attention span, the only thing shorter than my temper. You give me calm, you always have. It takes me hours to read three pages of a book I love, but yet I can sit and study the contours of your flesh, the dives and dips of you for hours and days on end. I kissed you for upwards of twelve hours the night we met, with not a break in sight. You gave me everything the drugs tried to. I see your smile every time I close my eyes. And I always cut off the writing before I say what I want to. That won’t change now.
See you soon.