#excerpt from the book ill write
It was a mere summer daydream, it wasn’t supposed to go far. It was to be short and sweet, like ripping a band aid off, quick and painless. But the more time I spent with him, the more the infatuation grew. I didn’t care that he wasn’t six pack ripped. I didn’t care that he had fading pimples, or random tattoos. He took me out of my boundaries. He was new. And I soon found myself tracing the freckles that covered his nose and back, I found myself running my hands through his messy hair, and smiling into his sparkling blue eyes whenever he caught me staring. He was beautiful, and he made me feel the same. Our time together was a magical experience; the sneaking out in the pitch-dark of night, climbing out of motel room windows and smoking Marlboro reds. Lying on the basketball court side-by-side talking to one another under the thousands of stars. Car journeys, shopping, sleeping together, watching the meteor shower cuddled under a blanket, hands entwined.
It all happened so quickly, and ended the same way.
A bittersweet love affair.
He told me smoking was bad for me, I never thought he would turn out to be worse. He was the type of person that got stuck, not only in my head, but in my veins too. The type I wrote poetry about, but wouldn’t introduce to my parents. He lit a fire inside of me, and then left me to burn out. I didn’t need to kiss him to feel the sparks, every time his fingertips brushed across my skin, my heart would race like a Maserati. My skin erupted in goose bumps, and my stomach filled with butterflies. And every time his lips met mine, I felt like I was on ecstasy. He was the closest thing to love I ever felt, and now that he’s gone I don’t want to feel it again. When he kissed me for the last time, my heart felt this loneliness; I still haven’t recovered from it.
- an illicit affair
And then you’ll find me, in my bathroom, spending at least 40 minutes in the shower, washing away the feeling of his hands that still remain on my skin, or in my room, in front of my dressing table, staring at my reflection wondering what it is that makes people vacate their way out of my life, wondering what is so bad about me that no one seems to stick around. You could find me in the middle of my room, lying on the floor staring up at the ceiling, listening to one of my many vinyl records. Or you could find me sitting on my window ledge, smoking the cigarettes that he used to, reminiscing on the taste of his lips that once filled my senses, or writing him into another hundred pages of my endless journals.
New York wasn’t the same without you. I never once thought for a second that a city, so vast and overpopulated could ever make me feel so lonely. But that’s exactly what it did. I could see your face everywhere, almost like you were haunting me. Guilt following me wherever I went. I shouldn’t have been thinking of you. But I saw you on street corners laughing drunkenly with your friends. I saw you in Central Park, smoking cigarettes. I saw you at the Highline - looking out at the skyline. And then I saw you, outside the hotel - teary eyed, arms outstretched - begging me to stay. And then I saw myself, shaking, with wet cheeks from the tears streaming down them, turning around and walking away from you. And as I stepped into the yellow taxi, you disappeared, faded away like you did 7 years ago. What would have happened if I stayed? If I didn’t get into the elevator?
New York left me lonelier than I was after I left you. I guess it’s my karma - you always had a way of coming back to me. Without you, my vision of New York is tainted - haunted by you.
I still think about him sometimes. Not in the “oh, I miss him” way of thinking, but more wondering what my life would be like if I didn’t get that flight to Washington, had I not left him in New York. If I didn’t get in that taxi, if I didn’t run out on him in the middle of the night.
Here I am, sat in an apartment, with my boyfriend, with our dog, getting our ducks in a row to buy our first home, and my mind shifts to him. I don’t miss him, I don’t care about him anymore, I’m no longer crippled by the loss, but sometimes I do think about him. Because when I met him, there was a version of myself I found, and then I lost just as quickly. And maybe I miss her more than I’ll ever miss him.
- Ever since New York
You can’t just let things go, because you’re not the one causing someone pain - he is, he’s causing you pain. So when you argue and bicker he’s always okay because you’ve never hurt him, he’s always the one hurting you. You’re always the one to go to bed with tear stung eyes and an aching heart. You’re the one that wakes up the next day with open wounds that haven’t healed yet He can forget and let go because he isn’t hurting, he hasn’t felt the pain of your knife plunging into him, because you’d never stab him. You can’t forget about the words he spits at you because there’s always truth in them, he wouldn’t say them if he didn’t mean them.
So when he comes home at 3am expecting a warm bed and heart to cuddle up to, you won’t be there - you will be this time, but as time passes and things worsen, one day, he’ll return to an empty room, vacant of any trace of you - the same way your heart will be vacant of him.
We’ll be a fine line
She was a bright girl. She knew what she wanted, and she knew exactly what she didn’t. She was easy to know, but difficult to work out. Mature for her age, with bright - misleading eyes, filled with innocence; contrasting from the crimson red that constantly coated her lips. Sending mixed signals without even opening her mouth. A burning soul and a freezing heart - contradicting herself from inside out. She’s a paradox. She’s careless, but she cares all too much. A love that once filled her heart, leaves her aching and longing. A passion that consumed her, leaves her cold and distant. A smile that was once permanently etched on her face is now vacant, left hard and bitter, non existent.
I set myself on fire just to keep you warm.
