Turn Me Cliche

It was a sign of how much I loved you. My heart contracting, trapped in the deathly-grasp of an invisible fist; my breath, thrown against the inside of my chest, caught and held in my lungs like a prisoner of war; my stomach floating and turning, crawling inside of me every time I saw you, every time my eyes beheld you, meeting your face… your eyes… your smile… It was a sign of how blind I was. Your imperfections were unimportant. Not only that, they were nonexistent. Everything about you was beautiful. I accepted you; adored you; wanted you with every part of me. You fascinated me: you were so much more than what other people thought, what they saw. You were different. I wanted you to love me; I wanted so much for you to love me, to hold me, to be with me always. But I realize this is impossible. I still love you—of course I still love you. You know this, and I hope you’ll forgive me when I say that I will always love you. You were everything to me, and if given the opportunity, I am sure you would be everything once again, but, as for now, it has never appeared more obvious to me that you don’t believe I should be yours. It isn’t easy for me. This is the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to articulate: I feel my mind working so hard to produce words that fit, words that flow… and even so, I fear they appear in a jumbled mess. I love you. I love you. I love you. It’s taken me so long to call it love. You were the first I truly loved, and it hurts. It hurts to love you. So I have to let you go. Since I’m being honest, I’ll admit, I want to be with you more than I could possibly say. But still, it’s not what I want most. I wish it was; I wish I could be more selfish. But truly, it’s not in my nature. I love you. I have never wanted anything more than for you to be happy. I hope you find her; I hope she loves you as much as I do. I hope you love her with all of you, with every inch of yourself, of your heart… with every aspect of your soul. I hope you love her. I hope you love her like you never loved me.

Fireflies and Christmas Tree Lights

A gust of wind rushes past me, throwing my hair off and away from my face. I stare, entranced, as the sun sets behind me, leaving the forest ahead to smile with a fresh, blue glow. Minute gold lights begin to flash. Sparingly at first: one here, another there. First there are only two… then ten… twenty… a hundred… too many to count. I swing my legs up, back and forth, feeling the breeze brush my face as the chains around which my hands are clasped squeal with the tension of this small movement of my body. Ann and Mark have been talking, conversing amongst themselves since we arrived, but I haven’t been listening. “You know what they remind me of?”
Ann turns, her head tilted toward once side, eyebrows slightly raised. “What? Wait, what are you talking about?”
“The fireflies: you know what they remind me of?”
Mark is staring at me now, too, an expression similar to Ann’s shaping his pale, freckled face. “What?”
The corners of my mouth curve upward with the delight of sharing. “Christmas tree lights. Look, see?” I tear my eyes away from the blinking lights to watch them: they both just stare for a fraction of a second, before glancing sideways at each other. They start to laugh.
“What? You don’t see it? The way they all blink everywhere, and never in the same place! It’s like those blinky lights on a Christmas tree!”
Mark tilts his head back with his eyes closed, then leans forward and looks at the ground, his mouth still set in an obvious crescent moon shape. “Not really.” He turns into me, cheeks big, showing off all of his teeth: “You’re so ADD. Way to be weird.”
I feel it first in my chest. Suddenly I don’t really want to be at Minebrook any longer. My cheeks feel warm, and the corners of my mouth begin to drop, but I feel them change and catch them before they give me away. I force a smile, “I know.” Take a breath. “Well, I’m sleepy! I think I’ll head out. See you two later.” I hop off of the swing and walk to my car.
I open up the door, climb inside, and slide onto the seat—beige leather—cheating, blocking all the lies, roughly attempting to fill in all the newly formed cracks, to re-attach the broken pieces with anything available.
I push the key into the ignition and turn it, sensing the vibrations, hearing the car growl as the engine sparks to life. I sit for a minute, one hand on the wheel. What do I do now?
I guess I’ll just go home… but somehow I know I can’t stay there.

A few hours later I am still in my car, but by now I am no longer alone: a boy, a young man, for whom I care very much sits next to me. We do not talk; just stare through the windows into the darkness and the surrounding trees. The moon casts its sad, blue glow over the myriad small, gold glimmers which have out-shown it, capturing our attention. I think out loud: “There are so many fireflies.” He responds without hesitation.
“I love them,” he says. “They remind me of Christmas tree lights.”

The Debate

There’s nothing really particularly amazing about him. It’s not like he’s Superman or anything; he doesn’t have any superpowers. He’s no batman, either. God, he’s not even Robin. So why the fuck am I so concerned in his absence, haunted by his existence and the concept of being without him? It would seem almost pointless to worry, but each time I pick up my phone, wanting desperately to ask how he is, reaching out and clutching for just one word back, whether that word consists of two letters or ten, I find myself reviewing and renewing old memories and thoughts I have been trying frantically to suppress, attempting once again – completely unsuccessfully – to push said thoughts away, and then, at the last moment, calling them wistfully back before staring at my phone and deciding that any move toward contact or communication on my part would be an insensible act which will only lead to expression of my own carefully guarded vulnerability.

A breath of air slips through my lips and sinks into my stomach. I stand, my phone open, my fingers poised over the keys, having already typed, deleted, and retyped in several different ways, “Hi. I miss you.”
And here’s the kicker: even if I get this right, even if every word is perfect and I somehow manage to come off random and casual… I know he won’t answer. He won’t answer; just by sending one text I’ll have shown him everything he needs to see to let him know that I still think about him even though he never thinks of me. He will be one up, once more, just by owning the knowledge that I miss him enough to try and try again to reach him without expectations. I hope, of course, as I stare desperately at the “send” button, that he will respond… but I cannot pretend to be unaware of my own skepticism.

This can’t be healthy. Actually, I’m almost positive it’s completely detrimental to my personal well-being: emotional mutilation which I inflict entirely on myself and because of my own wild thought processes. This said I find myself wondering if I am not possibly the worst kind of masochist. Am I?

To call myself a masochist implies that some part of me enjoys this sick game which, and I cannot deny this, I play frequently. You know the one: there are no rules and a million rules all at the same time, revolving around having and losing; one floods oneself with the bad and cherishes it, simply because it comes with (although it often overwhelms) the good. Is this not masochism? It sure as hell sounds like it.

But part of me says no. No. Part of me, a very small part of me, the only part that seems to have avoided all the inherent blindness of unconditional love feels, knows that he could have stopped this before it escalated to this extent, before it spread through my body and poisoned every part of me.

The same breath trails away, brushing past my lips, quietly escaping the confines of my body.