April 2010
44 posts
“I don’t know who you’re kissing now. But I do know who you think about when you do.”
—
12.56am
It was 12:56am, Tuesday morning.
I was lying on my bed, writing an old friend a letter,
by myself.
I got that feeling again,
You know, that one, when you’re reminiscing over someone or something,
and out of nowhere,
you get this overwhelming feeling of their presence,
right there with you.
Tingles start running down your spine,
your skin goes cold
and your mouth is suddenly dry.
It was 12:56am,
and I was by myself
but I wasn’t alone.
Option one: Over analyse, wonder what should or could have happened. Try and put the pieces back together.
Option two: Leave the pieces as they are, and move the fuck on.
If two past lovers remain friends, they're either still in love, or never were.
- You: Would you ever be able to trust me again?
- Me: I always said if you proved yourself I would.
The downside to justice
All the words I ever wanted to say,
but never had the courage.
This is by far the hardest piece of writing I’ve ever had to string together.
Things left better unsaid got the best of me.
The scars you can’t see are the hardest to heal.
A small minority of you will understand this perfectly.
To the rest of you,
I’m sorry, but this is my story.
Not yours.
No, take that back
I’m not sorry.
I will never be sorry for who I am.
There is a moment I can still replay in my mind like an insidious video recording. I’m standing in our living room and I am sixteen years old. I am upset, but I don’t recall the reason. Looking back, it was probably something minor. I’m in an altered state of consciousness, facing constant confusion; questioning my own fucking sanity. I feel I’ve lost all self control, hanging onto something that’s only bringing me down. I remember with clarity, questioning myself how much longer it will be I strive to fulfil the emptiness inside my heart. The hotter the pursuit, the more elusive it became.
It would be months before I saw with clarity once again.
After multiple hospital admissions, police reports, interviews and court proceedings, spending the night of my sixteenth in the emergency room after a four hour recap of every, single, fucking detail, I still wonder,
what if I could change it all?
Would I change it?
What if the alternative future didn’t include the amazing people I have surrounding me, I love enough to die for?
What if in changing the past, and removing the pain, I never wrote a single word for anyone to read?
If I held the key to the past, I would stand on the edge of the sky and let it fall wherever it was meant to be.
That’s where it belongs.
It was easy to forgive you when I realised how damaged you were inside your own heart. I imagined you first as that wounded little boy you once were, and the rest came easy.
No, erase that last bit.
Fuck you.
Fuck you.
There are still those nights I lay sleepless, expecting something more, anything.
An apology?
Explanation?
Some sort of sign your regretful of this, a little at least?
In the eyes of the law justice has been served, but in my head during those sleepless nights I know this has not yet ended.
The one downside to justice; it feels good,
but it doesn’t change
one
fucking
thing.
Tomorrow I am nineteen.
Tonight I wrote a letter to myself, to open when I am 21.
Burried at the place I go alone at night, with it is a locket with pictures of my grandparents inside, a sliver braclet, an old best friends necklace, a handmade shell necklace from my best friend, a blue pebble, pink crystal, a shell, a promise written on paper from a friend, and a couple of letters from loved ones.
In a naive mind that knows so much, the idea behind this was that no matter what happens from now till then, change being the only constant, I will remain the same. Sure, the faces and places will change with time. But the core part of my character will remain the same, no matter where my life may take me.
