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i was batting up my eyes, trying to get them to swallow the tears back, for more reasons than my mascara. i was looking around, and everything seemed like either a memory or a weapon. an army knife was staring at me from the coffee table. the sun was coming up and i was surrounded by people that wanted to talk to me-- that seemed to care about just being alive-- being friends, having fun. i couldn't stand to think about having fun.

i imagined my bath tub at home waiting for me. my solitude, my lonliness. my heartbreak, all to myself. and it was mine. the boys around me were happy-- and for once i couldn't relate to that. but, i was happy. i was happy for them, in some sort of a "you'll see," sort of way. as if i were an almighty, knowing being. as if i had had the sweet and drowned later in the sour. i was once that happy. i was once that in love and i rubbed it in everyone's face. and i don't understand how a heartbroken person could have wanted to know me.

your door closed and the light shone from the crack at the floor. i wanted so much to be in that room with you-- in that bed with you-- just sleeping. just taking in your breaths and feeling the warmth of your body. i wanted to smell your dirty hair. i wanted to touch my fingertips to the freckles along your back, like i always had, in our domesticity.

i thought you'd rather watch pornography and pass out drunk than to have me near you, in your bed. and for once, for the only time out of every accusatory time-- i was probably right. you would much rather have that, than to deal with the bundle of problems i came along with. and i understood that. and you. and i understood why.