Poems and Other Shit

You, My Hamartia - Journal Entry 2

I thought that this year, this dangerously last remnant of childhood, would be without you. I've been adjusting myself to this comfortable silence, away from you and the mutual friends that stopped inviting me out when you did. I've been studying, and making travel plans, and eating well. I've been turning my phone off at night, so I won't aimlessly check it, and avoiding the university library when I know you'll be around.

At first, it was lonely. But I've been growing comfortable. I go to your workplace and pretend not to see you as I grab my groceries and leave. You see, I already checked for your car in the carpark, and I see you before you ever see me. I'm growing confident in this silence, for I could have gone to the supermarket on the other side of town.

But my catharsis, my beloved journaling and haphazard blog entries, have almost entirely seized without you. So I've been searching for new passion, things that I could never tell you, or anybody, for they embarrass me. I signed up for a dating site, and a French boy and I twirled firesticks one evening. He wrote me a daring poem, and I cringed and wriggled uncomfortably on my bed as I friend-zoned him through text. I deleted my dating profile. I was feeling empty, and yet, unfillable.

And then, it happened.

He was standing at the back of Big W. As I approached, navigating towards the photo printing, I looked him up and down. Casual sandshoes, blue shorts, a plain white T-shirt and short cropped brown hair, the same mousey shade as mine. He was tall, sun kissed, and decidedly out of my league. I tried to pull my eyes away and prepared to walk past him.

And that was when our eyes caught. He turned around, and we stared at each other, both surprised. My breath caught in my throat as I exchanged hello. I was embarrassed, my supposedly first impression still whirling around my head. How had I not recognised you?

We made small talk. You sat on a chair and spun around, whilst I printed my photos. You'd be working out. I saw your arms straining within your white shirt, and it sent a shudder through me. At first, I spoke haltingly, my cheeks flushed. I inwardly checked myself off. Thank god I had been bothered to put makeup on that morning. Thank god I was wearing nice clothes, my black skinny jeans and my favourite heeled boots. I hoped I looked glowing, that my legs were noticeably thinner, that I came across as composed.

I entered the wrong details and had to begin the process on the computer again. I inwardly scolded myself. Why should I care what he thinks? Why should it matter if I looked 'thin' or not? Why should he have this effect on me anymore? And so we fell into a comfortable conversation, discussing our study and my travel plans and what not. Ten minutes later, you left, and I sighed a massive sigh of relief. I was on cloud nine for the rest of that day, for you had awoken feelings within me that had been supressed, and I was proud of how comfortable I had been, and incredibly sad that I still missed you so.

But alas, we were starting down our familiar path again, where I would love too much, and you would bail when it came to reciprocating. No pressure, I said, and hated myself for how willing I was to display my heart again, knowing perfectly well that you would take me in and spit me out once more, for had I not just given you permission?

You sent me a text. An invite. Our friends were getting married, and you wondered, would I accompany him and another of our friends and his girlfriend? It felt like a daring double date, a statement to the rest of our friends who would see us together. It felt wrong, and exciting.

I knew that you knew I would agree before you had even sent the text. And I was mad at myself for my willingness to wait, to let you have this forgiving, pure, attentive part of me. But I couldn't force myself to say no, even though I knew that I had waited too long, forgiven too much, and hurt more than I should. I couldn't say no, even though my logic was screaming at my heart that we had walked this path too much, screaming at me that I had made my resolve, that we were done and cried our last.

Really really? That would be really nice. I'm keen if you're keen.

Yeah, let's do it.

And so, I am stumbling down my familiar path of destruction. I've got only five days to physically and emotionally prepare. I'm already calculating the food I won't eat, and stressing about what to wear, and wondering what I am to say to the other couple we are attending with. I'm full of nerves, but I'm alive with excitement.

For you, my friend, are my hamartia. And I am both openly angered by this, and placidly accepting.