sixty-six : negative space
things deteriorate fast.
the first time, it was no big deal. a short-lived fling that ended naturally when the list of things we had in common didn’t grow beyond us both being 17 years old.
the second time was harder. we were young and we were drunk. fooling around on the couch at a friends place after a party. though i knew i wanted him and he wanted me, it was too soon and i said no. he left the room angry and minutes later i heard him fucking the girl i had called my friend and bandmate in the bathroom. that was at 2am. five minutes later i was running shoeless through the streets to the closest house i knew.
the third was harder still. there were lies. there were whole days that disappeared under blue sheets, hands and lips and what seemed like love. the end wasn’t as blunt as the one before, but still as difficult.
but that’s not the worst part. the worst part is the blame, because mostly there is no real direction for it to go in. thoughts play ping pong. if he hadn’t pressured, if i’d said yes, if she’d been a better friend, if he’d been a decent guy, if i hadn’t trusted him, if he’d been trustworthy, if i’d been better. blame bounces. and without a place to go, it becomes an inward-facing rage that gnaws away at the core of your heart like a rabid rat till you feel your insides turn to dust. nothing remains then. just self loathing and negative space.
tried my hand at ‘dangerous writing’ tonight. i didn’t do too well—i ended up getting really uncomfortable and editing a lot of it out, which is the opposite of the point. it’s still making me feel horribly awkward to post this, so i’m sure you can imagine how bad the rest was.
will try again tomorrow.
