How to Love Claire Mason

Words That Hurt

I have to remind my feet every day not to fall into synchronized step with his as we leave our English class and head our separate ways to our respective fifth period classes. Key word: separate. We are no longer one. He is no longer mine. I am no longer his. I am free. But if this is freedom, why do I feel so empty?

I must remind myself, over and over again on the short walk to Chem; he isn't going to kiss me at the corner of the science building before slowly trailing his hand across my waist as we part ways. He isn't ever gong to touch me again. Not ever. And in that, I should find relief, solace, even. But again, all I feel is empty.

I am pathetic, needy, and clingy; a typical teenage girl who can't fucking get over a petty, hopeless romance she lost because, hell, almost no one this age can keep one. The door is now shut. I'm locked out of his world. I don't exist. I shouldn't want to exist in that world. Not anymore than he wants to exist in mine. Because, he doesn't, not at all. I never cross his mind. I would feel it if I did, trust me. I would just know, because for the longest time, I have been without feeling. My mind, my life, is a movie without color, and the sound is louder, to compensate for the lack of color. The words, in my head, around me, the words are so fucking loud.

In English, the class I spend either staring listlessly off into space or thinking so hard my head aches, anything to avoid glancing at him, the last one, we were given a list of very, very simple words. The smallest, shortest, most trivial words you could imagine. And we were asked to jot down what each and every word made is think and feel, everything it reminded us of, everything it meant to us. How can you do that with three to five letter words? I don't know what the hell it has to do with anything anyway. It isn't psychology.

I planned on bullshitting the entire thing, it would have been easy enough. But then the teacher set the list on my desk and I took it in my hands and every word, every single word, even the three letter ones, leapt from the bright yellow page and into the part of my brain full of things I have shoved back, into the crevices of my memory that are almost out of mind but not quite, because these thoughts and words and feelings can never leave me. The words on the page brought forth those hidden, suppressed thoughts and emotions and extracted them from me in the form of tears and a tightness in my chest I couldn't shake.

How? How could these words, these simple, everyday, seemingly lifeless words mean so much? Each one was a trigger, each one sent a thousand more words racing through my mind like electricity on a wire. There was no way I could bullshit the paper. The words had to come out. I had to get them out.

Small Words, Great Meaning

War-there is a war inside me. The first skirmishes began long ago, during my dark times, and that was when I thought the roughest battles would be fought. But no. The wars I have fought within myself now, about him, about myself, are most draining.

Fat-all I could think of then, in the dark, was how fat I was. How ashamed I was because I was fat. I can never see myself as anything but fat. How did he want me when I was so fat? But he did want me. And maybe that's why what happened happened. Because he made me feel less fat.

Sad-an adjective that will never fail to describe me. At any given time.

Wet-wetness, shameful wetness, I can't begin to think of it without wanting to run away.

Bed-his bed. On his bed. Take what took place on it back. Take it back take it back take it back.

Dim-his, his room was so dim. And almost, hazy. The lights in my mind were also dim.

Met-we met. And that was the point at which my mind slowly began to slip away from me.

Fed-he fed me. Every damn day he did. Because he cared. But did he?