May 2014
Us in Stanzas
I sat down on the bench next to you and noticed you were smoking American Spirits instead of your typical Marlboro. I asked how you were doing and in the middle of your explanation you told me you really just needed a friend instead of something romantic. I smiled politely and silenced the scream in my throat as you read me two more of your poems. Then we got burritos.
My friend hesitates when he confesses to me that he knows you, and you’re ******* crazy. He tells me that you once tried to open your veins in front of him, and release all of the poetry inside of you. I call you and you don’t answer. I spend the night worrying about you in a way that makes me sick, but not as sick as all the beer and ****. By the time I realize I haven’t eaten all day I’ve been on the floor of the bathroom for two hours, as my best friend holds my hair. In between my violent retches I flawlessly recite Yeats’ “No Second Troy”. It’s funny, the things we remember.
I can’t help feeling that now I’m a stranger who knows what your twitching leg feels like on top of mine as we sleep. Sometimes I wish I didn't spend those nights with you on your bare mattress.
The next morning I go to breakfast with my friend and her boyfriend. I don’t like how uncomfortable their happiness makes me. I order what I always do, and even though I’ve been so empty the first bite makes me feel full.
I never told you, but I still have pictures of my ex-boyfriend on my phone. I’m sorry, but the taste of his name had barely left my mouth when you kissed me. He was covered in tattoos and my parents never liked him anyway. My mom asks how I’m doing, and says she really hoped you would be different. I don’t tell her everything. I tell her these things happen.
There is still time for you to be okay; I’ve been good, I’ve only panicked in the time between seconds. “Actually text me,” I said to you before you went home. You were nauseous and wanted to sleep it off. “When have I ever said I would text you and didn’t?” you ask. “Once or twice,” I said. “I haven’t kept track.”
I sat down on the bench next to you and noticed you were smoking American Spirits instead of your typical Marlboro. I asked how you were doing and in the middle of your explanation you told me you really just needed a friend instead of something romantic. I smiled politely and silenced the scream in my throat as you read me two more of your poems. Then we got burritos.
My friend hesitates when he confesses to me that he knows you, and you’re ******* crazy. He tells me that you once tried to open your veins in front of him, and release all of the poetry inside of you. I call you and you don’t answer. I spend the night worrying about you in a way that makes me sick, but not as sick as all the beer and ****. By the time I realize I haven’t eaten all day I’ve been on the floor of the bathroom for two hours, as my best friend holds my hair. In between my violent retches I flawlessly recite Yeats’ “No Second Troy”. It’s funny, the things we remember.
I can’t help feeling that now I’m a stranger who knows what your twitching leg feels like on top of mine as we sleep. Sometimes I wish I didn't spend those nights with you on your bare mattress.
The next morning I go to breakfast with my friend and her boyfriend. I don’t like how uncomfortable their happiness makes me. I order what I always do, and even though I’ve been so empty the first bite makes me feel full.
I never told you, but I still have pictures of my ex-boyfriend on my phone. I’m sorry, but the taste of his name had barely left my mouth when you kissed me. He was covered in tattoos and my parents never liked him anyway. My mom asks how I’m doing, and says she really hoped you would be different. I don’t tell her everything. I tell her these things happen.
There is still time for you to be okay; I’ve been good, I’ve only panicked in the time between seconds. “Actually text me,” I said to you before you went home. You were nauseous and wanted to sleep it off. “When have I ever said I would text you and didn’t?” you ask. “Once or twice,” I said. “I haven’t kept track.”
