This is funny. And it's happened before. I opened my old creative writing folder on my laptop, and found this gem - this heart-wrenching love splattering that I wrote over a year ago. It's funny because since I have written this, I've felt the same thing about 4 more times with 4 other people. I just find it slightly amusing that life is a cycle, where we are constantly putting ourselves into similar situations (whether it's conscious or not, I don't know) or repeating actions over and over again. It's a sad kind of observation, because these aren't necessarily good actions. This passage is about feeling like left-overs, about feeling like I've been discarded for something better, about feeling unwanted. I've felt this over and over again. It's funny...but it's not.
Regardless, I like the rhythm of this piece, because it was raw and it's the way my brain works - constant and punctuated and on-going. I am assuming and some-what hoping the subject of this passage is a universal feeling, which is why I will post my vulnerability for all the world aka my mom and the 3 other people that read this blog (ha). If nothing else, hopefully I will come across this later in life and have a soft pity for my old self. The future me, having experienced true care, will smile with withheld tears and compassion for the old me who suffered so when it came to love, knowing that it got so much better, and so much easier with time, wisdom, and age. Let's hope. Fingers crossed.
WARNING: This piece get's emotionally intense and depressing. But we all have those moments right? Yeeeeesh.
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I saw her today. It was jarring. I didn’t expect to see her. I didn’t want to see her. I didn’t know she’d be there. I was caught off guard. Unawares. I didn’t know you still felt that way about her. Whatever way that is. I didn’t know you still felt it. I didn’t know that feeling, whatever it is, still coursed through your veins, like tobacco on your lips after a cigarette. I thought you’d given up the addiction, if that’s what it was. Who knows. What do I know? I know nothing. So I’m forced to guess, to estimate, to guestimate. I’m left to analyze, to wonder, to scrounge for details. I’m left searching my brain for memories and words and bits and pieces so I can put together this puzzle that doesn’t even matter. I’m racking and ranting and reveling over you and this girl. Why? I saw her today, and I didn’t expect to, but I also didn’t expect to feel anything. I thought I was over you. Maybe that’s where the shock comes in – not that you are not over her, but that I’m not over you. I feel like left-overs. The kind you don’t eat the next day, but that sits in the refridgerator for days, until the whole kitchen starts to smell, and finally someone throws it away, like you threw me away. I was her left-overs. I was your left-overs? Whose left-over was I? Regardless, I meant nothing to you. I was just some distraction. I was temporary, momentary. Like a blink, a wisp, a breath of air, but an inconsequential one, like a sigh, an unnecessary one, like a gasp. Not even a gasp. Gasps are too momentous. It hurts. I won’t deny it. It hurts to not feel wanted or needed or desired or thought about. It hurts that you could have me, but choose not to or don’t want to. You did have me, but you didn’t like it. It wasn’t your thing. Me. I wasn’t. I wasn’t your thing. I was just sort of there, for amusement. It was nothing. I guess I knew it was nothing and thought it was nothing too. Until now. Now I’m reveling and racking and wondering and pondering and analyzing and questioning and fantasizing. What are you two doing now? I bet you’re making love. Is it sweet or sour? Do you like it or is it out of habit? We are creatures of habit, you know. Since I’m pessimistic I bet you like it. A lot. I bet you are so happy. With her. I bet you never think about me. Some girls aren’t like this, I realize. Some may find ways to make themselves feel better – may think you are unhappy or feeling neutral with this other girl, this “other woman”. But not I. I don’t. Why do I make myself unhappy? Why do I choose to make myself unhappy? I think I’m being realistic. But maybe I like being miserable. Maybe I like feeling “bad”. Who knows. Who cares. Who gives a fuck. You certainly don’t. I bet you haven’t thought 2 seconds about me since we last saw eachother – since that fateful day when I gave myself away to curiosity, sex, and you. Since I gave myself away to temptation, and destruction, and self-loathing. Since I gave myself away to someone who didn’t even want me. Good thing I didn’t give all of me. Good thing I didn’t fall in love with you. Now that would have been disastrous. People say things are more complicated than they seem. That we never know what goes on behind closed doors, and we never will. But maybe we do know, but are too scared to face it. Maybe I face it and that’s why I’m left feeling empty inside. I don’t think this is more complicated, though I wish it were. I think its plain and simple. I’m thrown away left-overs, that you haven’t thought about since you took the trash out. You’re eating at a fancy restaurant now, your favorite restaurant, the one you’re a regular at – and you are loving every minute of it. Well guess what, I still exist. I’m still in the garbage can, right where you left me.
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