Monday, February 28, 2011

An Open Letter

Dear ________,

You will never be the love of my life. You're too selfish and so am I. I don't like to be anxious when we meet up because I'm secretly scared that you won't pick me. So I'll take care of that, and not pick you instead. I won't bother to build anymore expectations, I know you prefer me more simply. Well, I'm not simple. And I'm not sorry.

I also won't pretend that there are others like you to help me feel better about the whole thing. Instead I'd just like you know what I know. That I want to say things like, I'm too pretty for you anyway. Not that you ever said so. In fact, it's why you're mean to me. Like the little boy on the playground who would rather run as fast as he can to the top of the slide and pretend he doesn't want to be caught and kissed by the girl whose chasing him. Such a stupid game.

But it's fine really, because I want a man who will turn and chase me back. Who will care about me wholly, and tease me with nothing but good intentions. Because if you're going to be the shit that I'm knee deep in, it better be worth the stench.

In some ways it's too bad, we do well when we're tangled up together. When we stop trying to be our clever selves, and are actually ourselves. But the rules aren't laid out real clear, and sometimes I want company in my mid-afternoon nap. Sometimes I want to invite you over for dinner, or into my shower. But that means there would have to be terms, and I don't want make those with you. Because I might like you, but I don't love you, and you don't love me.

I'll miss you sometimes. And think of you when a song comes on, but I won't let you ruin that album for me because even though there were some strings attached, you decided not to see them. Which means it won't be so bad when I cut them. The only thing left for us in common is music, so I'll see still you around.

Oh, and thanks anyway...

P.S. Be good to whomever you finally decide you want to chase back.    

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Scar Tissue

Funny how scars take shape.
Long and thin, barely noticeable unless you're close enough to try.
Made of yellow cotton, stitched together with an empty promise
Or not even that.
Ice buckets are warmer hotel mates than what lies between these scratchy sheets.
Sometimes they feel like an open wound,
Paper birds taking flight,
Late night whispers,
Good morning sleep in your eye.

I like bruises better anyway,
Even at the deepest
They're too shallow to stick around and cause any real damage,
And they don't mind company in their healing.
Scars are more solitary.

It'll be funny when you don't recognize me next time.
Looking sheepishly down at fingers wrapped in selfish skin
Trying to play that same song again.
You know, the one about knees
I'm still working on that backwards walk.
Or is that just the record scratching.

Vinyl scars -
Those do hurt the most.
More like a stretch mark though when you think about it,
A constant reminder of your growth rate,
of how you managed to scrape something else
a little too fast for just a scratch
And a little to deep to just heal and go away.