I think she slept with him. I saw, when I first told her, a flash in her eyes that she immediately snapped shut. A flash I now associate with the bubbling of her darkness. She inspected me, saw, decided secrets were best. She will never tell me. Secrets are a shield for her. But I think she has been kissed by those same lips.
I’d feel a perfect fool if that were true. I can still smell the scent of that house.
I wish we could laugh together, about our rough pasts and the feel of his skin.
yesterday.
I’m starting to forget the shape of your face. I remember only flashes of what your body looked like. I know it still exists; it’s just in bed with someone else.
The first moment you were inside me, I giggled at the rhythm of your thrusts. You asked me if I was laughing at you. I told you I wasn’t. I was. I was pretending to be sweet, at the time. But my sweetness is a finite resource, as you have now discovered, and occasionally the parts of me that are not gentle come out, boil over. I should have told you I thought that your hurried thrusts and attempts to give it to me hard deflated all the puffed up imaginings I had of you. You’re quite a proud man, when unclothed. Your pride might momentarily make you into a lion, but really you are a house cat. I told you that you made me purr. You never did.
If I had told you these things, instead of murmuring sweetness to you, instead of spinning sugar, you’d probably still be yearning to rub hard up against my leg.
It was your words that got to me and made me forget my own snigger. It was the meaning that you forced me to give to your rough caresses. I should have remembered that I laughed at you, as easy as sin.
As you left my room, you paused, moved slowly, so that someone else you once slept with didn’t see you leave. You once told me that you only ever kissed her, and it has occurred to me that that is not true, not true at all. You can not even be faithful to a long ago past. You are probably right now repeating this lie about me. “I only ever drunkenly kissed her.”
It’s not true, little girl. He fucked me and bit me and spread my legs so far that it hurt. He put his hands around my throat, gently, pretending that it didn’t mean that he hated me. He was angry when I bit him back and left my mark. My throat was marked for days. He was scared that I was laughing at him. He is probably far nicer to you. Maybe it is because you are prettier, or younger. Or because he knew, all along, that somewhere inside me, I thought he was a joke and knew he was a lie.
The first moment you were inside me, I giggled at the rhythm of your thrusts. You asked me if I was laughing at you. I told you I wasn’t. I was. I was pretending to be sweet, at the time. But my sweetness is a finite resource, as you have now discovered, and occasionally the parts of me that are not gentle come out, boil over. I should have told you I thought that your hurried thrusts and attempts to give it to me hard deflated all the puffed up imaginings I had of you. You’re quite a proud man, when unclothed. Your pride might momentarily make you into a lion, but really you are a house cat. I told you that you made me purr. You never did.
If I had told you these things, instead of murmuring sweetness to you, instead of spinning sugar, you’d probably still be yearning to rub hard up against my leg.
It was your words that got to me and made me forget my own snigger. It was the meaning that you forced me to give to your rough caresses. I should have remembered that I laughed at you, as easy as sin.
As you left my room, you paused, moved slowly, so that someone else you once slept with didn’t see you leave. You once told me that you only ever kissed her, and it has occurred to me that that is not true, not true at all. You can not even be faithful to a long ago past. You are probably right now repeating this lie about me. “I only ever drunkenly kissed her.”
It’s not true, little girl. He fucked me and bit me and spread my legs so far that it hurt. He put his hands around my throat, gently, pretending that it didn’t mean that he hated me. He was angry when I bit him back and left my mark. My throat was marked for days. He was scared that I was laughing at him. He is probably far nicer to you. Maybe it is because you are prettier, or younger. Or because he knew, all along, that somewhere inside me, I thought he was a joke and knew he was a lie.
past...
Did you ever see a photo of a group of people taken before they knew you, before there was any chance of you being in the photo? Photos of groups of people who you now talk to every day, people who you might write messages of warmth to inside a birthday card. These photos cause a sharp stab of sadness in my middle.
I can usually pin point where my sadness comes from with precise exactness, as if describing to someone where I have left a belonging; “the sadness comes from the third drawer in the white wardrobe, left hand side.” But this sadness? I have no idea of its origin. Where does it come from?
There’s a photo of his familiar face, but young, much younger than I know it. His hand is raised. There’s a photo of another leaning against the wall, grinning. There’s one of her on a fairground ride. I didn’t know any of them then, how could I have? They were in another city and years ahead of me. I was struggling through the mire of my childhood in those years.
His smile, the turn of his head, her long legs, make me miss somewhere I’ve never seen. Why do I yearn to be there, where it is impossible for me to have been? I was elsewhere, maybe smiling, maybe on my own ride. I feel a tightening of longing in my gut. I can’t stop looking at this past, this evidence of how this person came to be, and feeling terribly, terribly sad.
I can usually pin point where my sadness comes from with precise exactness, as if describing to someone where I have left a belonging; “the sadness comes from the third drawer in the white wardrobe, left hand side.” But this sadness? I have no idea of its origin. Where does it come from?
There’s a photo of his familiar face, but young, much younger than I know it. His hand is raised. There’s a photo of another leaning against the wall, grinning. There’s one of her on a fairground ride. I didn’t know any of them then, how could I have? They were in another city and years ahead of me. I was struggling through the mire of my childhood in those years.
His smile, the turn of his head, her long legs, make me miss somewhere I’ve never seen. Why do I yearn to be there, where it is impossible for me to have been? I was elsewhere, maybe smiling, maybe on my own ride. I feel a tightening of longing in my gut. I can’t stop looking at this past, this evidence of how this person came to be, and feeling terribly, terribly sad.
25
“Silly girl. He’ll cut you into tiny, bite sized pieces. From the cuts he makes, all the humanity of you will seep out. He’ll lick it all up, taste it on his forked tongue. He’ll roll it around in the cold inside of his mouth. He may celebrate your taste. He’ll tell you that you taste of peaches, or the rain. He’ll tell you that you taste like something you’ve always wanted to taste like. I always wished I tasted sweet, and feared that I tasted bitter, like a lemon, like burnt coffee. You will probably believe in your sweetness more readily than I ever did. You’ll smile. But then he’ll spit it all out. He’ll curse you for the mess you’ve made, kick at you while you try to mop up the mess with your own wadded up skirts. Silly, silly little girl. You are not imaginary and soon he will have no use for you. You taste just as bitter as the rest of us.”
I wish someone had said this to me, all those months ago.
I wish someone had said this to me, all those months ago.
last time...
Today I miss you.
At least, I think I might miss you tonight. I’m going somewhere. The last time I was there, I spent all night talking to you. You told me you loved me, I could feel your grin across a land mass. That was when we had unfinished business. That was before you took me to bed again. I wore the shoes I had on when we first met, in the summer heat. I drank too much wine, and you made me happy, just with words. That was one of the moments when the feeling of you always being with me was good, a moment when your presence was no burden. Just a secret. It was beautiful, it was precious, it was a little charm in my pocket, it made me feel like everything shone differently and that I was more to the world than what I could see. Tonight, I will hear the same voice that sung to me that night but there will be no words from you, none, not one. I’ll be glad and feel bitter and feel sad. I’ll be free. I’ll still miss you.
There’s this tiny hole somewhere that makes the structure unsound. I drip drip drip out of it. Because, when the hole heals over, I pick the scab off, every now and again. And then I miss you. I’ll miss you, until I no longer do. I’ll miss you. I’ll miss you. I’ll miss you. It’ll drip, drip, drip.
Right now, I play music that I used to listen to before I knew your name.
At least, I think I might miss you tonight. I’m going somewhere. The last time I was there, I spent all night talking to you. You told me you loved me, I could feel your grin across a land mass. That was when we had unfinished business. That was before you took me to bed again. I wore the shoes I had on when we first met, in the summer heat. I drank too much wine, and you made me happy, just with words. That was one of the moments when the feeling of you always being with me was good, a moment when your presence was no burden. Just a secret. It was beautiful, it was precious, it was a little charm in my pocket, it made me feel like everything shone differently and that I was more to the world than what I could see. Tonight, I will hear the same voice that sung to me that night but there will be no words from you, none, not one. I’ll be glad and feel bitter and feel sad. I’ll be free. I’ll still miss you.
There’s this tiny hole somewhere that makes the structure unsound. I drip drip drip out of it. Because, when the hole heals over, I pick the scab off, every now and again. And then I miss you. I’ll miss you, until I no longer do. I’ll miss you. I’ll miss you. I’ll miss you. It’ll drip, drip, drip.
Right now, I play music that I used to listen to before I knew your name.
2008
“I wouldn’t leave.”
She says this to me again. She says it often. She re-tells stories, and this utterance is the punch line. She has said it to a friend and a doctor. I assume that she has said it to him. She hasn’t ever told me that story. But she’s told me that he’s told her to leave. I can only assume she said it to him.
“I won’t go.”
This is a strange thing to say, when someone wants you to go. I would never say it. I am always asking “do you want me to leave?”
Sometimes I leave before any questions are posed. I gladly leave before I am an unwelcome guest. I left him, before I could work out what he wanted. After he’d come, and fallen asleep beside me, I left the room. Left him alone, moved to another bed. In the morning he followed me there, and he put his hands on me until I moved against him and left myself for a second. And then I closed my legs and left him again, gathering my things with haste… leaving, leaving, leaving… quickly, quietly, head spinning, running, gone. Now, I see his hands and I wonder what my world would look like if I was the kind of girl who said “no, I won’t go’ instead of “I’m going now.”
Now, I drive along, alone, listening to that girl singing with her school girl voice: 'I left him, and I can leave you too' and I wonder who I’ll leave next, and if he'll still be in the room when I go. I wonder when I’ll feel I can stay.
She says this to me again. She says it often. She re-tells stories, and this utterance is the punch line. She has said it to a friend and a doctor. I assume that she has said it to him. She hasn’t ever told me that story. But she’s told me that he’s told her to leave. I can only assume she said it to him.
“I won’t go.”
This is a strange thing to say, when someone wants you to go. I would never say it. I am always asking “do you want me to leave?”
Sometimes I leave before any questions are posed. I gladly leave before I am an unwelcome guest. I left him, before I could work out what he wanted. After he’d come, and fallen asleep beside me, I left the room. Left him alone, moved to another bed. In the morning he followed me there, and he put his hands on me until I moved against him and left myself for a second. And then I closed my legs and left him again, gathering my things with haste… leaving, leaving, leaving… quickly, quietly, head spinning, running, gone. Now, I see his hands and I wonder what my world would look like if I was the kind of girl who said “no, I won’t go’ instead of “I’m going now.”
Now, I drive along, alone, listening to that girl singing with her school girl voice: 'I left him, and I can leave you too' and I wonder who I’ll leave next, and if he'll still be in the room when I go. I wonder when I’ll feel I can stay.
10:43.01.07.09...
I don’t miss how my stomach filled up with tiny little lead balls of confusion whenever you periodically updated me on your latest conquest. But I can’t say that I don’t think about the smoothness of your hand on the back of my neck.
2001
In a room, alone with slamming doors. With the mad clearing, the piles of things not wanted, of things to be cleared, of junk the she doesn’t want to see. All the others have gone the way of the rats, jumped ship long ago… now only my ears can hear the thuds of rage and the obsessive shifting of furniture. What is it? Shall I look under the bed? On the red table? Where have you put it in your whirl wind of all possessions constantly moving? Will I be here for you if you go looking for me? Will I be in this green room and will I hide from me in the piles of ‘do you want this? Can I get rid of it?"
01.07.09-07
I’m just now starting to realise that there are certain things that will always be stained by your presence, now banished. That there will always be books that have two authors for me; you, and the person that wrote the words. When I read those books, I read them with you, whether you know that or not. I read, alone, in my bed with cold sheets, you in my head reading with me, as if you were looking over my shoulder making comments. Your narration overtakes me.
Now when I read about that character, the one like me, I can not see her without seeing you. I can not think about her without thinking about what you think of her. What you said about her stung, and I will always feel that sting, because I will always see the words “she looks like someone I could fuck and leave” alongside the words of the real author. When I think of her fixing her mussed up hair with a self-consciousness that made her hands shake, and her pulling the sheet quickly over exposed breasts, I see a hideous reflection of my own inadequacies and how they must have appeared to you, you who can not even abide seeing a woman not able to move without consciousness on an empty dance floor. I think about what you must have thought of my lack of grace. My fumbling touches, my insipid moans, my too intense feelings and my inabilities… how you must have compared them to the detached grace of the beautiful women who had been there before me. I wonder if you compared me to the ones who were there after.
I wonder if you took me to bed so you could narrate in your head a story about a little girl who thought too much of you while you thought too little of her. A girl that you took from and lied about, used as a mirror and then forgot. A girl you emptied yourself into. At the fore of this story would be everything that made her forgettable. You would outline with scientific precision every imperfection that allowed you to treat her like she was nothing to anybody. There would be no consideration of your own imperfections, you would not reward the girl for her ability to see them and love you anyway.
Now when I read about that character, the one like me, I can not see her without seeing you. I can not think about her without thinking about what you think of her. What you said about her stung, and I will always feel that sting, because I will always see the words “she looks like someone I could fuck and leave” alongside the words of the real author. When I think of her fixing her mussed up hair with a self-consciousness that made her hands shake, and her pulling the sheet quickly over exposed breasts, I see a hideous reflection of my own inadequacies and how they must have appeared to you, you who can not even abide seeing a woman not able to move without consciousness on an empty dance floor. I think about what you must have thought of my lack of grace. My fumbling touches, my insipid moans, my too intense feelings and my inabilities… how you must have compared them to the detached grace of the beautiful women who had been there before me. I wonder if you compared me to the ones who were there after.
I wonder if you took me to bed so you could narrate in your head a story about a little girl who thought too much of you while you thought too little of her. A girl that you took from and lied about, used as a mirror and then forgot. A girl you emptied yourself into. At the fore of this story would be everything that made her forgettable. You would outline with scientific precision every imperfection that allowed you to treat her like she was nothing to anybody. There would be no consideration of your own imperfections, you would not reward the girl for her ability to see them and love you anyway.
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