If I told you I loved you, you wouldn't bat an eye.
There would be no double-backs, the slightest bit of hesitation would never exist. Instead, you'd simply reply instantly like clockwork. On one hand, that's reassuring, but on another it unveils the harshest and cruelest twist of all.
You can never love me the same way.
I sit alone in the dressing room, reading the last few pages I have for an assignment, a different play. I sit and read in the silence; rehearsals are running and I'm early in the first Act, and then I vanish without a trace. But all magicians have to go somewhere. So here I sit, on a somewhat padded couch as noises are heard from outside the door. For a while now, most of the crew have been occupying themselves with a game, a great silent one at that. I would join, but my lack of glasses make such a game impossible, as it relies on your eyesight. If I'm blind as a bat, which I often am, I resign myself out of habit as to not intrude. I don't want to ruin the game for everybody because I can't see. It's often just like why I can't join in a conversation with the majority of the crew; my lack of hearing and yet sensitivity to hearing make it difficult to hear, much less have a conversation. That's why I much prefer one-on-ones, or trios if were in equal distance of each other. Too much background noise or too far away, even just a few seats, is hard for me to hear. I start to space out as I linger on a page, almost at the end. I sigh and take a break, right as the door opens.
You walk in, with your usual charm as you've just had mountains of fun staring at people. Your voice is chipper, quiet but still chipper. You comment on my actions; with-holding myself to the dressing room as everyone plays. I don't say much. You take a few, I don't notice what you're doing, but suddenly you're in front of a mirror with a strikingly pained face disguised by your laughter. You're exhausted. You fell for a man either taken or straight. I honestly don't want you to say. I don't want to hear as much as at the same time I want to be there for you. To hide my own comment I shoved in the back of my head, I merely say that it sounds like a you problem. While it is, and you laughed it off, I worried if my words or my tone was too harsh. These days I can never tell. My mind's been a mess, and I've gotten so many comments on how depressed I've been, how I don't look alright despite my demeanor, and I just want to quit. I don't want to move, I've even considered taking one long drag of a cigarette and as I inhale the toxic chemicals I feel alright. But I don't, and the nonexistent addiction of a mere mention of a cigarette wants me to smoke. As you laugh at my comment, in the same offhanded way I did, I worried if I should've said what I was thinking. If I had said: "Well at least you know you don' t have a chance" would you look at me like I was crazy? Like I took your pain and made it about myself in my own selfish way. If I did, I probably would have ruined your preconceptions of me. People hate that, and I tend to find that out too late.
As you go to leave, another head pops in to check if I'm alive and suddenly I'm alone again. This is just how it is. These days, all I can ever be is useful, but not as a person only as an object. Not an object of desire or greed, one who has one trick to recycle and then is thrown away with all the rest of the one-use items you might pick up from the Dollar Tree.
This wasn't the only time, and often I've been feeling lonely even though I'm clearly surrounded by everyone in arms reach. My voice isn't heard, even if I did try to speak. You probably don't remember, but I cried heavily the night I was ignored. I was ignored by everyone, anyone, and it wasn't until somebody else mentioned what I was talking about that somebody cared. Does anyone truly care about me? Obviously yes, after all people wouldn't interact with me if they didn't. But everyday, I hear this voice telling me the truth: everybody else have their own lives, worries, triumphs, and live carries on without you. Without me. So it really doesn't matter if I'm here, I don't add anything. As much as I want things, I resign myself because I know these facts of life and choose carefully what I say to whom. But you were the first one in a while to hear anything unfiltered come out of my mouth, and it made me want to do it more. But the more I do it the more I see how I'm imposing on others, on you. It's suffocating, but I chose this.
I chose to deal with an unfruitful love, as I have done years before and years before that. There's nothing that changes this, and I hope you never see this. Knowing me and my impulses, maybe I'll post this one day, but I hope it's not now.
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to inquire more about your strife, your struggles. In turn, you'd ask me and I would say something so cryptic, I only wish you wouldn't know, but you would. Of course you would, after all they would be words from your mouth. This push and pull I struggle with tears me inside as I recite the mantra I held in for the past few months : Whatever you need me, however you want me, I don't care how you use me. I just want to be used, to be useful for my purpose and call it good. I would resign myself for years of torment than ruin the friendship we have. But it wouldn't matter, I lost before it even started.
The first time I really noticed I didn't have a chance was the time we were alone; you plainly said asexual in reference to me and I couldn't refute it. It was wrong, but you only said that because of my asexual colored socks. How could I tell you "no, it's just they don't have anything else under the spectrum so I have to go with the base flag" it'd make things awkward if I fought so a resigned and just laughed. It hurt, but I laughed. You brought it up again days later, as you mentioned something so completely ass-backward that I thought you were joking. You weren't. And you clearly didn't want to hear me so I don't bring it up, and I never bring it up again. But I don't think you understand, and it hurts. It hurts so much.
I feel so alone and yet, people are talking to me. I'm having conversations, but the imposter syndrome kicks in and I leave without a trace. The only time your lucky is if you see me in passing. I know you have, because every aching moment I look in windows, doors, mirrors, catching as many glimpses of you as I can before you pass. I know where you are, and every time I look to the right I see you watching and I break. Not enough to forgo my lines, but enough to know I can never escape. My eyes search for you, my hunger is never satiated, and I feel like a loser just sitting next to you. Others know, desperately know how I feel and they can tell. Why do you think they always make a big deal out of it. It's not normal, and I don't want to be here anymore.
But at the same time I do.
