This is an excercise in getting you out of my system.

We were young. I place you first, usually, because it is easier somehow. I hurt you, as I was going to-- what did you expect? I'd been coddled for so long, I didn't understand what it was like to give. I didn't have the sense to end things more amicably, and you were someone I could afford to lose at the time.

You were a mistake. It should not have happened.

How did we end up this way? It's been nearly a decade and I'm still not sure what happened, exactly. I want to say I didn't know any better but that's a lie. I let myself be intoxicated and I've never fully shaken it off. Remember when you cried? I doubt even you know if that was genuine. That is my last memory of you, and it still makes me uneasy.

You didn't know what to do with me. I thought I wanted to be sensible like you, and what a damn stupid idea that was. I wasted my youth and don't tell me otherwise; nigh on my early twenties and frumpy. Gods I still get a blinding anger when I think about you.

We needed each other; I was competent enough to ride it out for that short time. I wish you well and only think of you with fondness.

I broke you because my greatest sin is anger. I broke you because I couldn't have you-- I didn't care (and still don't) that you were too naive and ignorant to even deal with yourself. You try screaming at a brick wall for a month and see what it does for you. There's a fine, fine line and I tore you apart in the end. I enjoyed it.

You were the drip antibiotics to my worst infection. I knew I had to leave the hospital one day-- you were a safe house, not a destination.

And now here I am, safe house still in sight at my six. You are... strange. You cast familiar shadows and yet at the same time you are something else. You have his brilliance, his depth for forgiveness, his wisdom, his ambition and drive. I am not whole and you don't mind, because neither are you. There is nothing to sweep under the carpet. You try to teach me that people do deserve good things in life-- I think I am beginning to understand.

I think I may be old enough, just about enough, to be able to sing that Sarah Mclachlan song now. Now I understand. And after this, I should work on Love for Sale-

Well, let it pass, he thought;
April is over, April is over.
There are all kinds of love in the world,
but never the same love twice.

-- F. Scott Fitzgerald

I should not be feeling this way; it is much too late in life for me to be teenagering it up. This is ridiculous.

I hate you. I still want you back, but I hate you anyway.

Oh gods, I want you back so badly it hurts like a knife in my chest.

If I can't be with him, then I don't want to be with anyone.

Yes yes, melodramatic I know. But we all need a bit of drama in our lives. Anyway jotting this down here so that I don't forget.

It was over the phone
as it always is,
in the middle of the night
filled with long periods of silence-

she wasn't enough,
he needed someone
to fall madly
and desperately
in love with,

no hesitation
no pause
without thinking
head over heels.

In the end
he does after all
need someone
smarter
and prettier
and younger

so that he wouldn't be
stuck only waiting
with his toes
just on the
edge.

She is sorry
that she wasn't enough
to send him
flying.

That it wasn't
the fucking fairy tale
we are always looking
for-

I'm not that girl.


I'm always,
never that girl.



(Original Reference Text)
I know you can't hold out forever,
for a boy who won't jump.
When he falls in love,
he just stands
with his toes on the edge
and he waits for it
to disappear again.