It's always painful to go back there, back to the city of roses, and rain, and her... sometimes I joke to myself that it's neccesary torture and that without it, I would cease to exist, at least in an emotional sense..
I'm over it for the most part now, but I can't help but to think of her when i'm in town, how she's doing, if she's happy, I sit and I stare at her phone number on my call sheet for hours sometimes, flicking a pen, chain smoking, or drinking a beer, i'm trying to run through all of the possible scenarios that could happen in my head, would she be happy to hear from me, is she still angry? hurt? confused? I confirm to myself that no matter the outcome, I deserve every bit of hatred that she seethes when she speaks my name with a forked tongue, afterall it's my fault, every bit of it..
I've always been terrible at expressing my feelings, I don't trust anyone completely, and certainly not myself, I always believed everybody had an agenda, everybody would leave when that so-called air of mystery surrounding the quiet kid with his headphones on listening to music, and chain smoking while sipping a grande caramel mocha at his favorite coffee shop in the world on hawthorne aired out.
The little die hard punk rock kid with uncompromising ethics and morals, the one who was always sitting in the most anti-social spot everywhere he went, and rarely talking aloud save for Tuesday night, Tuesday night was poetry reading at Cafe Lena on 25th and Hawthorne, all of his friends were there, sometimes I thought they only came to remember what my voice sounded like.
Everyone is interested in the mysterious quiet kid until they learn about the pain that they conceal, and then they turn and run.. as they should, they all do. They all aid to the reoccuring sense of abandonment, people only stick around until they have had their fill, or until I cut them loose, whichever comes first. She was the latter. Maybe it was a slight self esteem issue, i'm not sure, but I just could never imagine that *I* was what somebody desperately needed, maybe it's because I never needed anyone as much as they might have needed me, maybe I saw that as a sign of weakness and it put me off.
The rain pounds on the roof, Joy Division's "Substance" plays on the turntable the pop and crackle of old vinyl and the first bridge in "Warsaw" ignites memories from almost a decade ago, memories that leave her scent, unmistakably Nag Champa. I hate her for all of it, everywhere I go, it reminds me of her, she drove me away to the city of angels to begin with, I had severed her from my heart, but it was too late, I ached, everything I had feared had come true, she had successfuly destroyed me, I swore to never let anyone that close again, I hated her enough for caring about me, but I hated here even more for making me care about her.. I had to leave Portland immediately, and in the fall of 2000, I did.
After an eternity of staring at her phone number, I convince myself to pick up the phone, I have to talk to her, I have to have her as a friend at least, I feel empty inside without her in my life, I would give all of it up to receive her forgiveness, I would give anything to feel.. whole, convinced that only she can fill that gap. I dial the numbers in front of me, but fail to press the illuminated "6" glaring at me, mocking me, I am one push of a button from spilling my heart to her, from answering the questions that she once begged me in tears, her face bleeding mascara in the rain, her Red Aunts t-shirt soaked, and her pinstriped slacks barely held up by her triple row studded belt, or over coffee staring at the swirls that the cream left in the cup and avoiding her while she walks past me at Dot's, so many times I wanted to explain, I just never could.. I could never bring myself to hurt her even more by telling her that I was the fuck up, and there was no way she could understand..
I decide it's better not to dredge up old feelings, after a minute of staring at the phone, unable to dial, I slowly replace the phone in it's cradle, telling myself that she's better off without me in her life, complicating things.
I'm over it for the most part now, but I can't help but to think of her when i'm in town, how she's doing, if she's happy, I sit and I stare at her phone number on my call sheet for hours sometimes, flicking a pen, chain smoking, or drinking a beer, i'm trying to run through all of the possible scenarios that could happen in my head, would she be happy to hear from me, is she still angry? hurt? confused? I confirm to myself that no matter the outcome, I deserve every bit of hatred that she seethes when she speaks my name with a forked tongue, afterall it's my fault, every bit of it..
I've always been terrible at expressing my feelings, I don't trust anyone completely, and certainly not myself, I always believed everybody had an agenda, everybody would leave when that so-called air of mystery surrounding the quiet kid with his headphones on listening to music, and chain smoking while sipping a grande caramel mocha at his favorite coffee shop in the world on hawthorne aired out.
The little die hard punk rock kid with uncompromising ethics and morals, the one who was always sitting in the most anti-social spot everywhere he went, and rarely talking aloud save for Tuesday night, Tuesday night was poetry reading at Cafe Lena on 25th and Hawthorne, all of his friends were there, sometimes I thought they only came to remember what my voice sounded like.
Everyone is interested in the mysterious quiet kid until they learn about the pain that they conceal, and then they turn and run.. as they should, they all do. They all aid to the reoccuring sense of abandonment, people only stick around until they have had their fill, or until I cut them loose, whichever comes first. She was the latter. Maybe it was a slight self esteem issue, i'm not sure, but I just could never imagine that *I* was what somebody desperately needed, maybe it's because I never needed anyone as much as they might have needed me, maybe I saw that as a sign of weakness and it put me off.
The rain pounds on the roof, Joy Division's "Substance" plays on the turntable the pop and crackle of old vinyl and the first bridge in "Warsaw" ignites memories from almost a decade ago, memories that leave her scent, unmistakably Nag Champa. I hate her for all of it, everywhere I go, it reminds me of her, she drove me away to the city of angels to begin with, I had severed her from my heart, but it was too late, I ached, everything I had feared had come true, she had successfuly destroyed me, I swore to never let anyone that close again, I hated her enough for caring about me, but I hated here even more for making me care about her.. I had to leave Portland immediately, and in the fall of 2000, I did.
After an eternity of staring at her phone number, I convince myself to pick up the phone, I have to talk to her, I have to have her as a friend at least, I feel empty inside without her in my life, I would give all of it up to receive her forgiveness, I would give anything to feel.. whole, convinced that only she can fill that gap. I dial the numbers in front of me, but fail to press the illuminated "6" glaring at me, mocking me, I am one push of a button from spilling my heart to her, from answering the questions that she once begged me in tears, her face bleeding mascara in the rain, her Red Aunts t-shirt soaked, and her pinstriped slacks barely held up by her triple row studded belt, or over coffee staring at the swirls that the cream left in the cup and avoiding her while she walks past me at Dot's, so many times I wanted to explain, I just never could.. I could never bring myself to hurt her even more by telling her that I was the fuck up, and there was no way she could understand..
I decide it's better not to dredge up old feelings, after a minute of staring at the phone, unable to dial, I slowly replace the phone in it's cradle, telling myself that she's better off without me in her life, complicating things.
VIEW 13 of 13 COMMENTS
lila:
it was nice to meet you as well. don't be shy! 
booshanky:
You love my name BEEYACH!