"why don't you let me be? 'cause i'm a million miles away... why don't you set me free? you don't treat me like you say. i'm going faster, you're going backwards, you're gonna miss me when i'm gone. i'm going faster, i know what i'm after, i should've been after it all along."
-rachael yamagata, faster
"when i drop you boy, you'll need another toy, one that won't stand up for herself, when i knock you down, you'll need another town where somebody will talk to you, you just let me wait, now it's too late for your delayed devotion... played me for a fool, for too long, blinded by your lies i never saw your wrong, i'm no longer under your spell, hear it in a song, you can go to hell."
-duffy, delayed devotion
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
this cannot end well
Oh crap. I'm happy.
My last post was a result of desperately searching for an excuse to leave, an excuse to avoid happiness. Nothing could be more terrifying than happiness, right? I wanted a reason to hate him, and by golly, I found it. But I asked for the truth- demanded, actually, and I need to be satisfied with the truth, instead of assuming someone is lying or betraying.
I wouldn't let someone else accept that- but now that I'm in it, it's so different. There's cotton candy clouds, lingering, you-never-want-them-to end, body-chilling kisses, Rachael Yamagata lyrics (the happy ones), and secret desire, stolen glances... all of those disgusting things that ten minutes before made me want to mouth-vomit.
We (I) decided to go to the bookstore, my single most favorite place on earth. "If you dare take me into a bookstore again," I said with a flirtatious devil-smile, knowing that peeling me away from the shelves at our local bookstore was a Herculean task. Our first date, partially occurred in the bookstore, perusing the aisles of music and then back through the books, where he watched me, fascinated as I groped different titles each with a squeal. He moved in for a kiss, and I quickly pivoted, giggling, 'Not in front of the books!" my hair flipping, as he stood there, slightly defeated but mostly intrigued as he prepared for the challenge.
It was no different this time around, only this time I decided to disparage those sacred volumes by allowing a quick peck, sweet, sexy, chilling, as he came around my back and wrapped his arms around my waist. I focused on my books, seriously, intensely, and purposefully- I wouldn't let him win or distract me. "Just these last two sections," I told him, "But I really appreciate that you're tolerating me here."
"I like watching you here." he said, grabbing my hand for a kiss, one of those gentle, Grace Kelly/Audrey Hepburn happenings, that you see in the movies, but don't actually think exist. That gentlemanly, you're a lady, I want to treat you as such kiss, so proper and tender. You never ask for that one, but by golly, every girl desires it- ever since John Kennedy, JR married Caroline and the world saw their wedding photo- every girl desired that kiss.
And as we approached a biography section, about the Kennedys- he knew to stop, stand in front of it, blocking me from visiting, from viewing. "You're blocking the Kennedys!" I said, giving him a poke and nudge.
"I know- you will take forever here!" he told me.
"But look- it's not just the Kennedy's- John, Teddy, Robert, John-John!- but John Kerry too- I need to see the Kerry bio- and Nixon! Please?" He quickly moved as I gave a short pout- three minutes! I insisted- but I was so amused that he knew I was fascinated by them.
And the entire night was spent like that, with complements and adorable exchanges and- gasp!- cuddling. I pretend to groan- and cuddling isn't something I usually enjoy- it implies feelings- but for whatever reason, those moments made it okay.
We went to a movie- a chick flick, which, whatever, I can watch them, but I'm not thrilled about them- and as we sat down, he lifted the armrest, pulling me close to him. "Maria," he said softly, but still with tentative confidence, a slight twinge of vulnerability that was just attractive enough without compromising any masculinity, "You're so beautiful- your hair, your smile, you smell great- you're just perfect."
I stared at him silently, unfortunately, looking for a sign that he was lying- blinking too much, sweating, some nervous tendency- and much to my chagrin- nothing indicated that he was insincere.
"I think I'm falling for you," he whispered in my ear, and then gave me a gentle, passionate kiss.
I said nothing, still silent, and the theater's darkness didn't end my suspicion.
"I'm falling for you," he said, confidently, and in that moment, a brief glimpse of light showed me his face- still sincere, still telling the truth, nothing to be afraid of. Say something! I screamed at myself, but instead, I kissed him back, quietly, tenderly, with great ease.
I felt comfortable, for that brief second, in that instant in his arms, with my worries gone, my bullshit absent, and for a quick moment, happy. Reality soon returned though, my reality, and that forces me to remember I need to stay on my toes, and wahoo, how nice of him, but I cannot take it seriously. That quick perfection was fleeting, not something that stays.
And despite my crap, what I call "knowing better," I am happy- confused, but happy.
My last post was a result of desperately searching for an excuse to leave, an excuse to avoid happiness. Nothing could be more terrifying than happiness, right? I wanted a reason to hate him, and by golly, I found it. But I asked for the truth- demanded, actually, and I need to be satisfied with the truth, instead of assuming someone is lying or betraying.
I wouldn't let someone else accept that- but now that I'm in it, it's so different. There's cotton candy clouds, lingering, you-never-want-them-to end, body-chilling kisses, Rachael Yamagata lyrics (the happy ones), and secret desire, stolen glances... all of those disgusting things that ten minutes before made me want to mouth-vomit.
We (I) decided to go to the bookstore, my single most favorite place on earth. "If you dare take me into a bookstore again," I said with a flirtatious devil-smile, knowing that peeling me away from the shelves at our local bookstore was a Herculean task. Our first date, partially occurred in the bookstore, perusing the aisles of music and then back through the books, where he watched me, fascinated as I groped different titles each with a squeal. He moved in for a kiss, and I quickly pivoted, giggling, 'Not in front of the books!" my hair flipping, as he stood there, slightly defeated but mostly intrigued as he prepared for the challenge.
It was no different this time around, only this time I decided to disparage those sacred volumes by allowing a quick peck, sweet, sexy, chilling, as he came around my back and wrapped his arms around my waist. I focused on my books, seriously, intensely, and purposefully- I wouldn't let him win or distract me. "Just these last two sections," I told him, "But I really appreciate that you're tolerating me here."
"I like watching you here." he said, grabbing my hand for a kiss, one of those gentle, Grace Kelly/Audrey Hepburn happenings, that you see in the movies, but don't actually think exist. That gentlemanly, you're a lady, I want to treat you as such kiss, so proper and tender. You never ask for that one, but by golly, every girl desires it- ever since John Kennedy, JR married Caroline and the world saw their wedding photo- every girl desired that kiss.
And as we approached a biography section, about the Kennedys- he knew to stop, stand in front of it, blocking me from visiting, from viewing. "You're blocking the Kennedys!" I said, giving him a poke and nudge.
"I know- you will take forever here!" he told me.
"But look- it's not just the Kennedy's- John, Teddy, Robert, John-John!- but John Kerry too- I need to see the Kerry bio- and Nixon! Please?" He quickly moved as I gave a short pout- three minutes! I insisted- but I was so amused that he knew I was fascinated by them.
And the entire night was spent like that, with complements and adorable exchanges and- gasp!- cuddling. I pretend to groan- and cuddling isn't something I usually enjoy- it implies feelings- but for whatever reason, those moments made it okay.
We went to a movie- a chick flick, which, whatever, I can watch them, but I'm not thrilled about them- and as we sat down, he lifted the armrest, pulling me close to him. "Maria," he said softly, but still with tentative confidence, a slight twinge of vulnerability that was just attractive enough without compromising any masculinity, "You're so beautiful- your hair, your smile, you smell great- you're just perfect."
I stared at him silently, unfortunately, looking for a sign that he was lying- blinking too much, sweating, some nervous tendency- and much to my chagrin- nothing indicated that he was insincere.
"I think I'm falling for you," he whispered in my ear, and then gave me a gentle, passionate kiss.
I said nothing, still silent, and the theater's darkness didn't end my suspicion.
"I'm falling for you," he said, confidently, and in that moment, a brief glimpse of light showed me his face- still sincere, still telling the truth, nothing to be afraid of. Say something! I screamed at myself, but instead, I kissed him back, quietly, tenderly, with great ease.
I felt comfortable, for that brief second, in that instant in his arms, with my worries gone, my bullshit absent, and for a quick moment, happy. Reality soon returned though, my reality, and that forces me to remember I need to stay on my toes, and wahoo, how nice of him, but I cannot take it seriously. That quick perfection was fleeting, not something that stays.
And despite my crap, what I call "knowing better," I am happy- confused, but happy.
Friday, December 4, 2009
another one bites the dust
As I write this, my lips are still numb from kissing you. My clothes still smell of you, and my head is back in your bed, wondering where I went wrong in my four walls of self defense. I'm here, yet thinking about your hands in my hair, how sweet it was when you forced me to hold you, and forced me to let myself be held, yet I cannot help but think my heart is your little chew toy, even across town, miles apart, because here I am, thinking about you.
Each time I have seen you, you have asked me to be your girlfriend a minimum of twice. You hold my hand, tell me I'm beautiful, I smile, you wrap your arms around me and give me a kiss. I tell you you're full of shit. So many things are so wonderful, everything I wanted, that this roadblock I discovered kills me.
You say my name as you roll me on my back, your hands on my stomach, telling me about the perfection that is me- my lips, my eyes, my face in general, my body, and of course my personality, and oh yeah, a 'god damn' for good measure, 'I like you so much.'
That's when I kiss you, and you repeat yourself, pulling away- expecting a response. I stare into your eyes, and quietly, earnestly and self-assuredly echo the sentiment. I'm sure that was when I took the silver bullet.
I'm getting up to leave, and I look down to grab my coat- where I find a plastic wrapper, a discarded filament from the heat of someone else's moment. I give a quick laugh, tossing it at you, I ask you what the little piece of evidence's origin was. You say a month ago, and get up to kiss me goodbye. I resisted slightly, and you say, 'We're not exclusive- you're the one resisting a relationship.' I tell you honestly for the moment I don't care- of course we're not exclusive- fuck whomever you like.
I change the subject and head on my merry way. You ask if I need to be walked to my car, independent woman inside refuses, and tosses a 'don't be silly!' In disbelief at your easy acceptance of my refusal, I slowly trot in my high-heeled boots, the ones that you excitedly remarked on how they bring me to your shoulder, into the night, on the unsalted driveway. The snow sparkles in the street lights, usually something I accept with great joy and welcome but now just serves as a cold and unfriendly reminder I'm walking alone.
And it doesn't hit me until I'm in the car why I'm upset- why I feel sick- it couldn't be the condom scrap. But it was- leaving me defenseless against that frightening purple scrap of plastic- evidence that I'm not the first girl in your bed that week, and certainly not the one you enjoyed having in your bed because I'm not the one who fucked you.
I didn't understand why you pursued me, still don't- why you said everything you said- you're too smooth for your own good. And then it came to me- my first impression, my instinct, was right- you're just full of shit.
I couldn't believe how quickly I dropped, how easily I gave into you, and stared at myself in my rearview mirror in shock, reminding myself this is why there are four walls -you barely made a dent. Needless to say, I won't be traveling outside my comfort zone for awhile.
Each time I have seen you, you have asked me to be your girlfriend a minimum of twice. You hold my hand, tell me I'm beautiful, I smile, you wrap your arms around me and give me a kiss. I tell you you're full of shit. So many things are so wonderful, everything I wanted, that this roadblock I discovered kills me.
You say my name as you roll me on my back, your hands on my stomach, telling me about the perfection that is me- my lips, my eyes, my face in general, my body, and of course my personality, and oh yeah, a 'god damn' for good measure, 'I like you so much.'
That's when I kiss you, and you repeat yourself, pulling away- expecting a response. I stare into your eyes, and quietly, earnestly and self-assuredly echo the sentiment. I'm sure that was when I took the silver bullet.
I'm getting up to leave, and I look down to grab my coat- where I find a plastic wrapper, a discarded filament from the heat of someone else's moment. I give a quick laugh, tossing it at you, I ask you what the little piece of evidence's origin was. You say a month ago, and get up to kiss me goodbye. I resisted slightly, and you say, 'We're not exclusive- you're the one resisting a relationship.' I tell you honestly for the moment I don't care- of course we're not exclusive- fuck whomever you like.
I change the subject and head on my merry way. You ask if I need to be walked to my car, independent woman inside refuses, and tosses a 'don't be silly!' In disbelief at your easy acceptance of my refusal, I slowly trot in my high-heeled boots, the ones that you excitedly remarked on how they bring me to your shoulder, into the night, on the unsalted driveway. The snow sparkles in the street lights, usually something I accept with great joy and welcome but now just serves as a cold and unfriendly reminder I'm walking alone.
And it doesn't hit me until I'm in the car why I'm upset- why I feel sick- it couldn't be the condom scrap. But it was- leaving me defenseless against that frightening purple scrap of plastic- evidence that I'm not the first girl in your bed that week, and certainly not the one you enjoyed having in your bed because I'm not the one who fucked you.
I didn't understand why you pursued me, still don't- why you said everything you said- you're too smooth for your own good. And then it came to me- my first impression, my instinct, was right- you're just full of shit.
I couldn't believe how quickly I dropped, how easily I gave into you, and stared at myself in my rearview mirror in shock, reminding myself this is why there are four walls -you barely made a dent. Needless to say, I won't be traveling outside my comfort zone for awhile.
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