18 January 2013

Here's an old something I dug up and found to my liking. This is personal and no longer true in the slightest, but the emotions are raw and I wanted to share. *** Conor, I see right through you. I know why your doing this. I hate it. I'm amused by it. I get it. You're lonely. You want a replacement. You can't have me, why wouldn't you go for her? Exactly, you would. And I'd like to say "I'm not much better," to spare your feelings, except that I am better. Because I don't say those same things I said to you to anyone else. I don't have those magical canned lines that make ugly desperate people fall for me. But you do, and you use them well. Obviously they work, didn't they work on me for seven whole months? Yes she's falling fast and falling hard and, hell, maybe you think you are too. But you're not. I know you better than you think. Maybe it's time you drop this whole cold shoulder act and come to me again instead of settling for second best. Except it wouldn't work. Except I would push you back, make you cry and plead all over again. Until you scorned the mention of me and cursed my name, the way you probably do now. And I would smile and lie to myself the same way I always have. "Oh it's okay, Claire. You can do better, Claire." Except I can't. Because we were both so perfectly flawed we fit together impeccably. And I didn't see that. That something so beautiful can be broken and pieced together and still be breathtaking. Even if it's a new kind of beauty. A beauty unusual and unexpected, but fantastic all the same. And yes, I had my chance, And yes, I missed it more than once. No, I'm not asking for that broken and gorgeous relationship again. I don't want that. And I doubt you think you do. I just want an explanation. I can't make sense of what I see, and things like this have a way of eating at me. So why? Why exactly would you go for second best? Date someone you said horrible things about only a month and a half ago? Because you've learned to like her? Love her like you say you do? Tell me, dear, did you learn that having someone, even someone you see as terrible, is better than having no one at all? Does she makes you forget me when she's in your arms? Tell me, is it different? Is she anything like me at all? And when you kiss her, do you still believe it's me until you open your eyes again? I'm dreadfully curious. And maybe I have no right to be, but I am all the same. Because loving someone so much for so long makes it impossible to stop caring, no matter how many times you ask me to forget you, I can't. And somewhere deep down I know that I still care no matter how many comforting denials I push on myself. Does she make you happy like I did? Did you miss me, or just the idea of having someone romantically involved with you? That's a question I've been asking myself over and over since that day when I started crying after second block. When I went home in tears and tore up all your old notes. When I put away the painting, the jewelry, when I burned the photos and reminders. That's when I ran to the gym to sweat for hours, and refused a bite of anything to eat for days on end. That was the day I contemplated ripping open every one of my veins, and later decided against that for good. I covered my body in dozens of butterflies, and not a single one of them took your name. Because you had stopped caring. And I decided not to care either. But I did. And I stayed up every night and questioned every memory of you, and every word you ever said to me. I didn't know who you were, and I started to question who I was too. You would like to say I was the cruel one. That I didn't listen, and that I didn't know the whole story and that I needed to give you another chance. I believed you thought I was happy we were apart. I convinced myself we were both better off even though I was so numb and broken myself. That morning you refused to even look at me. I don't think you understand how hard it was to paint on a smile that day, when you were curled up, head down on your desk. And I brightened up my eyes, sat up straight even though I was running on empty, and tried at a pleasant conversation with anyone but you. The words that came out of my mouth were automatic. Robotic. It was like I couldn't feel, couldn't manage complex thoughts anymore. But somehow I did. And I got along fine eventually. And I learned we are better with a little breathing room. But there are still nights when I want your arms around me. When I want my head on your chest and to play with your curls and turn the world to slow motion and mute until we break apart. Thats what it used to be like. For me, at least. And I would be lying to you if I said I was better without that. I don't know exactly why I felt the need to write to you, or why I would want to admit things to you I kept so bottled up. But I do. And honestly I just want to know. Just about you. Not even about her. Simply how you are. And how you've been. And what you've been doing and thinking about lately. And what you've been reading and writing and feeling and dreaming. What keeps you up at night. If there are any new scars. If I ever cross your mind anymore. Maybe I have no right to ask, but I am anyway. Because, though I wish differently, I still care about you a whole fucking lot.

-Claire

*** My fellow Opussians, call me Amelia.

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