flitter

May 08, 2008 - 19:45 PM PST

A four door car, airbags, excellent brakes, 100,000 mile bumper to bumper warranty…. it’s called nesting.
I take pictures of my hands, the ugly fingernails, bitten and half chewed. The scar from when I was 12, ran too fast and fell. Twisted blue veins that the best fortune teller couldn’t unravel. Fingers that ought to be longer, palms that should be cleaner. It’s difficult to imagine these hands slipping into another hand. To be grabbing bottles and papers. Wiping away tears that are not my own. I have always hated holding hands. The slippery nervousness a barrier between me and everlasting happiness. It’s my sweaty palm that allows you to slip away. My body betraying. My hand regretting. And it isn’t that I loved you much, but only enough to be embarrassed by it.
Take a breath.

Retreat.

Move back.

Halt.

Close your eyes. And remember where you are and where you are not.
And I see a person who used to be my friend.
And I watch a movie that reminds me of all the dreams I once had.
It is all clichés and idiotic fantasies. I reprimand the reflection I see in the mirror.
“Stop. Just Stop.”
First comes anger.
Then comes begging.
“Please, stop. Please, stop”
It’s the simplest language that hurts the most.
“I don’t want you.”
It is simple syllables that tear me apart.