paradoxical

why doesn't it feel as poetic as it used to

Every day, I hear a little voice in the back of my head.

The voice can be mean sometimes. I think it's trying though.

After you, it got a little louder. It got a little more opinionated. It got a little meaner. And it got a lot better at telling me to not let people in.

I listened to it though. Which I was okay with. Because in a way, it was always right. But it was not always easy. Because at the end of the day, all it had to worry about was telling me how to be. It didn't have to actually be me. Live as me.

I had to.

It got kinda lonely at times. It still does. When the loneliness got bad, I looked at old pictures. Because you told me to. I was so sad. So skinny. So soulless.

The voice always did a good job at reminding me that the lonely was better than the soul-crushing, heart wrenching, stabbing pain that came with every little comment you made.

The stab wounds are scarred over now. It has been ten months. They are still there though. Lighter than my normal skin tone. A pale white that contrasts my caramel brown skin like streaks of white paint smothered into my skin. It's not paint though. Still smothered into me though.

But yesterday, and the day before yesterday, one opened.

It opened for you.

When I first saw you, I didn't really give you a second glance. You were cute, but that little voice reminded me that I'm ten months into the loneliness that had somehow transformed into a sort of solitude that became a comfort zone.

A couple drinks in, and I carried my overly drunk friend back to his house. You were there, and you were also a couple drinks in. I sat next to you. I didn't really consider that sitting next to you would reopen them. Maybe it was when your thigh brushed the pale white streaks on the side of my thigh but I was too busy focusing on the blinding smile plastered on your face because you seemed so interested in everything I said. It had been a long time since someone looked at me like that.

I never thought anyone would ever again.

I went home that night thinking of you. I slept and woke up and just decided to blame it on the alcohol and not think much of it. Then I saw you the next day at the football game. You smiled at me while standing a couple rows above me. You were still looking at me like that. I couldn't hold your stare because I had to tend to the blood seeping from another open wound. Another slip up.

We got home later. We hung out with all of our friends. I would see you looking at me through my peripheral. I wrote it off as overthinking.

Then I went out again at night. More drinks. You had more too. I didn't really see you while out. I thought of you though. I walked back to the house only to find you sitting in the recliner talking to friends. Everyone began to find places to sleep. I didn't want to. I walked over to you and perched myself on the edge of the recliner. It was about 2am.

It was about 5am by the time we decided to clock in at night. I wanted to sleep earlier. Every time I stood up, you grabbed me by the waist and begged me not to go. I couldn't say no to you. You rested your head on my shoulder periodically and looked me in the eyes for so long. You really looked at me. You covered my mouth whenever I laughed because I was a bit loud. And thought everything was funny.

You called it cute.

I forgot what it was like to be called that. By this time, blood was seeping out of all my wounds. But your hand on my thigh was too distracting for me to even notice it.

We slept in the same bed. We didn't do anything. We didn't even kiss.

But god was it fucking hard to wake up in the morning and watch you sit up, ask where I was going, and hear you say "I'm going to go shower, so goodbye if I don't see you again."

I knew you were leaving. But when you sealed it with a handshake and letting soft smile, my scars started to burn. They were gushing.

I knew you for two days. But you looked at me and I swear it felt like the last ten months I spent alone was just because I was waiting for you.

We haven't talked since. You're gone now. And it's just so fucking unfair that you left with the my ten months of progress in tow. I want it the fuck back. Because I hurt. And I don't think you do.

Wish I listened to the voice this past weekend. But I guess I was too busy listening to the wrong one.