alarmed by the seduction, I wish that it would stop.

[erika]

If the last four years of my life were a jigsaw puzzle, there were various points I could've sworn I had it mostly assembled. I thought, at the very least, I had the picture on the front of the box that tells you where all the pieces are supposed to go.

Now it's, what, three months after I was very curtly informed I had no fucking clue; now, I'm counting down the days until the arrival of quite a few sordid anniversaries.

In two days, it will have been two years since Joe and I broke up. In two weeks, it will have been two years since I told Steve how much I liked him, how I argued so ferociously that it could all work out. And in two weeks and four days, it will have been two years since my house burnt down.

I don't have much to show for the last two years. More than that, I don't know how to pick up the pieces and realign, putting someone else into the place of what meant so much. I'm not even sure it's worth it—start over, start again, find someone else, find something to love. The words that compose my former plans make as much sense to me as the breeze, and feel as tangible.

I joke and say I would endure heartbreak if only I could get laid. For what seems like my whole life, my modus operandi was that I would endure anything to be loved.

But I endured all that I could, and in the end it didn't help.

Months of long distance, of whispers bouncing off satellites and eight hour plane rides. An amount of money that could've financed a rather nice car. A brisk farewell, and irritation.

Months of sporadic anger, temper tantrums, mental illness, smoke and cold ashes that clung to my skin while I lay, alone, listening to the tapping of computer keys in the next room.

We could try to come up with reasons why I lust after love, why I act like a junkie going after their next fix—my parents never demonstrated affection, I wasn't disciplined enough as a child, I overindulged myself, I got too much praise, I got too little praise, I don't know and I don't care.

End result is: I washed out, grifted out of the pan like so much trash.

Perhaps my pain of heartache will be forgotten. After all, a mother hoping for another child somehow manages to banish her memories of the pain of labor. It must happen, somehow. Eventually.

But not today.

please note that i was tempted
to save this post and post it on
valentine's day.
but i'm not quite that melodramatic.

Comments

[nightingayle.livejournal.com]

I have two confessions.

1) I love your writing. You choose the most lovely words.
2) I don't really remember how you ended up on my friends list. I meet everybody through somebody or somewhere, but I have no clue where to put you.