Medical Emergency

Undecided

"He slept in my bed?" I sit on the couch with Liz. "Yeah, I felt bad making him sleep on the couch and I definitely wasn't going to sleep with him in my bed. "I know." I gulp my wine, finishing it in one sip. Liz opens another bottle. We've downed one already, but it's necessary. He slept in my bed, he stayed in my room. I just hope he didn't go through anything. "How long were they here for?" I ask. "Just a couple days. They had to get back home to get ready for their summer concert line up." She says, pouring more wine into her mug. We finish up the bottle before my head starts to get fuzzy. 

"I'm gonna go to bed before I end up sleeping on the bathroom floor." I put what's left of the bottle away and clean our mugs. "Night!" Liz yells as she walks into her room. I walk into mine. Seeing everything. My bed in the middle of the room, perfectly made still, like it hasn't been slept in. The only messy part is the blanket at the bottom, terribly folded at the end of my bed. My wall of record covers behind my bed, from All Time Low to Adele, and Rich People...and Grayscale. My makeup table with stool, white dresser and closet doors. My swing chair in the corner by the window, white lights strung around the room. My canvas and paints. Then, there's my books, in dark shelves, some in perfect alphabetical order of writers last name, some strewn about the room, in piles on the floor because I ran out of places on the shelves. One book, open on my nightstand. Milk and Honey by Rupi Kaur. One of my favorites of hers, a book filled with poems and sayings about love, loss, hardships, and life. The page open reads: 

"you might not have been my first love
but you were the love that made
all other loves seem
irrelevant.."

I read this, over and over. A scribbled written message in the margins of the page, like so many books I have written in before. Each book on my shelf has bookmarked pages and scribbles in its margins, folded corners of the pages and ratted spines. The scribble isn't mine. "The irrelevance of other loves is just that...irrelevant." I flip through the book, scribbles in random pages that don't feel so random. 

"the world gives you so much pain and here you are making gold out of it.." 

"You are gold.."

"i am hopelessly
a lover and
a dreamer and
that will be the
death of me" 

"You will be the death of me." 

"you cannot leave
and have me too.
i cannot exist in
two places at once"

"I cannot be your friend and your existential lover. The one in the shadows, behind closed doors and messy bedsheets. I am yours, forever yours." 

"she was a rose
in the hands of those
who had no intention
of keeping her"

"I want to keep you. Water you, fill you with sunlight, watch you grow. And when your petals fall, I will keep those too. Dry and encased in a book, forever keeping the red color, never fading or withering, between the written words of the greatest writers, my love. I will keep you." 

I fall to my knees on the floor, my back against the bed. I feel the tears hot and burning down my cheeks. His words inked into me like the tattoos already on my skin, painful and permanent. I read the pages over and over, his scribbles are more than just that. I don't know what to do. With him I feel so free, whole. Like the pieces of me magically fit together without even trying. With Matt, I feel new, and dangerous, like a high speed chase on the freeway. But is it only just that? I remember sitting on the bed and reading our books, and reading to each other the poems, walking on the beach and splashing around in the water. I'd let the waves carry me out to sea if I could, so I didn't have to decide between two great men. Who'd of ever thought it'd come to this? Since when have I been the one torn between two people? Never, I always chose myself.