tears and folds again
she wore a red dress. velvety red dress. it was her mom's, and she made me watch her prepare for a dinner party i wasn't going to. i came over wearing bedroom slippers and a grey shirt. i was tired. she put makeup on her face and looked in the mirror at times. i had to pin the slit of your dress so it wouldn't ride so high up. i want to cry because deep down in me i secretly believe you always know exactly what you're doing, even if you're not aware of that. i hate this. instinctual (isthataword). i was affected, during walks with bubble solution in hand and wands. your room. your room.
none of us are really dying, we should stop pretending
and i feel really dirty about now, and then i'm reminded that that mural was never finished. there were lots of murals like that, never finished some not even really started, remember the clothing.store, now it's closed and SPACE FOR RENT everything is always just a sign, telling you it's over. right in your face. airbrushed displacement.
you say you aren't comfortable there anymore. with trees on the ceiling, are they melting? i haven't been, in a long time, there. your friends have names like "nadia." and those boys with belly tshirts. i miss dabbling in stage crew. i miss you and staple guns and joe's discussions and ladders and casual injury. sawdust.
i forget, did you tell me that you'd finally torn that mural down? i do remember you saying it had gotten too old. yes.
you wrote you didn't like this town and you had to get out of this little place you had to get out here. confining and limiting. i didn't want to confine and limit you. i did nothing in this idea you have, of me affecting you in a way, positive or negative or whateverive. i never even spoke, remember? i just looked a lot. you always drove me to look.
and to think, i could have been something else. i'm nothing else.
please know. please note.
/
but, you don't even love me. (that's not an accusation or a "you should--" by the way, i hope that much is obvious. i'm just trying to sort through what i read and i'm scraping my knees inside.)
you don't know who i am.
which is not to say i do, either, but...oh. you don't know. you have a made up person in your head. and i know, i know, this old argument but. why is it so acutely felt about you? i always feel like we're talking/dwelling on some stairwell.
if you erase me, maybe i won't have to think so hard about that i was close. close, maybe.
you wrote once,
I wish you hadn’t written me this letter then I wouldn’t be reminded of how you are. You know the 1 in a billion thing. And I wouldn’t know how much you loved me and maybe I would have forgotten that I still love you, but now I can’t so therefore I thank you and now that I think about it I’m glad that you wrote me the letter.
i really love you. how do i get over it, again and again.
none of us are really dying, we should stop pretending
and i feel really dirty about now, and then i'm reminded that that mural was never finished. there were lots of murals like that, never finished some not even really started, remember the clothing.store, now it's closed and SPACE FOR RENT everything is always just a sign, telling you it's over. right in your face. airbrushed displacement.
you say you aren't comfortable there anymore. with trees on the ceiling, are they melting? i haven't been, in a long time, there. your friends have names like "nadia." and those boys with belly tshirts. i miss dabbling in stage crew. i miss you and staple guns and joe's discussions and ladders and casual injury. sawdust.
i forget, did you tell me that you'd finally torn that mural down? i do remember you saying it had gotten too old. yes.
you wrote you didn't like this town and you had to get out of this little place you had to get out here. confining and limiting. i didn't want to confine and limit you. i did nothing in this idea you have, of me affecting you in a way, positive or negative or whateverive. i never even spoke, remember? i just looked a lot. you always drove me to look.
and to think, i could have been something else. i'm nothing else.
please know. please note.
/
but, you don't even love me. (that's not an accusation or a "you should--" by the way, i hope that much is obvious. i'm just trying to sort through what i read and i'm scraping my knees inside.)
you don't know who i am.
which is not to say i do, either, but...oh. you don't know. you have a made up person in your head. and i know, i know, this old argument but. why is it so acutely felt about you? i always feel like we're talking/dwelling on some stairwell.
if you erase me, maybe i won't have to think so hard about that i was close. close, maybe.
you wrote once,
I wish you hadn’t written me this letter then I wouldn’t be reminded of how you are. You know the 1 in a billion thing. And I wouldn’t know how much you loved me and maybe I would have forgotten that I still love you, but now I can’t so therefore I thank you and now that I think about it I’m glad that you wrote me the letter.
i really love you. how do i get over it, again and again.