I can’t help it, but I swear I’ve tried. It’s just… It’s the way you let me trail my fingers across your chest when we hug goodbye. The way you tickle my lower back when you want me to turn around. The way your eyes grow the second you realize I stopped smiling because of something you said. The way you know my coffee order but hate saying it out loud. The way we avoid small talk - settling for long-winded rants or pure silence instead. Or when we’re driving and you’re angry and all I want to do is scratch your neck and tell you to breathe. It’s how when you’re around, it feels like I can breathe.
I remember that sinking feeling of 16 all too well. The tiredness that knocked me out when the sun was up, only to leave me awake and alone with the moon. The bruises and scars that I swore were accidents, but were actually perfectly calculated wounds designed for relief. The constant feeling of worthlessness, brought on by a boy who wouldn’t take “no” for an answer. And everyone thought I was the crazy one.
22 is starting to yield the same results. Except it’s not a boy who has broken me; it’s a company that started digging my grave, even though I’m still breathing. I’m exhausted trying to fight their fight, and have slowly watched the marks accumulate in an attempt to take some control back. It’s 5:00 a.m. and I can’t sleep because I slept the afternoon away. There’s nothing more that I can do and still it’s not enough. And everyone thinks I’m the crazy one.
‘We’re friends, right? We’re friends. We’re friends,’ you said with absolutely no certainty. Which was valid, because we weren’t. In fact, I’m honestly not sure we are now. I’m your friend, but you’re hardly mine. I let you vent about the things that drive your blood pressure up, but you know nothing about the demons dancing around in my head. I changed my flight so I could be there for you when it counted, and you couldn’t even get out of bed. I am honest, I am kind and I would drop just about anything for you - all you have to do is ask. Maybe you would, too, but I would never ask. Most of the words that slide off your tongue or out of your fingertips make me feel stupid or embarrassed, or some awful hybrid of the two. Sometimes I think the only thing keeping my number in your phone is that our checks are signed by the same person. But we’re friends, right?
I’ll tell you why. It’s because we were both a few glasses of whiskey in and you just looked at me. Which brown eyes that didn’t scare me, you looked at me. There was no one else in the hotel room; everyone else was across the hall. I was sitting on the desk and you were a few feet away on the bed. You looked at me and you said goodnight. You could have done anything and you just looked at me.
—and now you won’t.
Three weeks sober and five years clean, and I would love to blame this heartbeat on the caffeine.
You swore up and down that it was the distance. The miles between us were too much to push us past “casual”. That was the word you used, right? I remember it stung when it left your tongue.
And then you met her and all those miles seemed minuscule. I get it, I suppose. She’s blonder. She’s prettier. She’s skinnier. And I guarantee her head and heart work a whole lot better than my broken ones do.
I hope you’re happy, goddamn, I really do. But I wanted to be the one to chase your demons away and listen to the songs you refused to let go unsung. But I wasn’t enough, and that’s fine. It just hurts like hell that you found your “enough” just around the block from where we first dropped our guards.
We’re quiet, and innocent. There’s so much comfort in your presence that my shoulders immediately drop when everyone else leaves the room and our silence carries no weight; it’s just how we are. We’re quiet.
It’s all physical, in the simplest way. Your head in my lap; my fingers in your hair. Sometimes we tease and sometimes we kiss, but for the sake of comfort - not lust. There’s an understanding that we exist on a couch and not in a bedroom. We’re innocent.
I thought I was falling for you. On paper, I was head over heels. But I can’t picture your eyes right now, so I know it’s not real. That’s how I always know it’s real. You don’t have me hypnotized, you just have me hooked. Hooked on the safe feeling that trickles into my bones when you slip your arm around me and let me close my eyes.
—but my heart doesn’t beat any louder for you
You curl up in my lap like you need saving
My fingers tug at your almost-black hair
My nails trace the calluses that line your palms
You let the stiffness fall out of your limbs
You pull me in to rest against your heavy chest
My body starts to miss the weight of your chin
My hands relax right below your rib cage
You stop trying to fight your falling eyelids
You grip my hip bone like you want to fuck me
My self conscious self pretends I’m not scared
My ear picks up on your quiet little heartbeat
You lay your scruffy cheek upon my lazy head
You doze off to the feeling of my skin on yours
My mind reminds me I’m in way too deep
You grip my hips like you want to fuck me,
But tickle your fingers up my sides instead.
You’ve locked your lips for the sake of safe,
But I know you’re fighting a goddam feeling.
—just like I’m not