It's Coming

 

that time. and while it doesn't frighten
me as much as it did last year, it's still
not a pleasant thought. will there ever
be a day in my life when those names, that
thing won't cross my mind like a shadow
across the sun? it brings the same sense
of coldness and anxiety that a sky full of
leaden clouds does. god, i hope it one
day stops hurting. you can bet your ass
that many, many days go by for them without
one thought of me. i'm sure the sound of
my name, the mention of the state i'm living
in now doesn't bother either of them one tiny
bit. i want that, too. if wanting would make
it so, i would hardly remember anything of that
time, nothing from that time would bother me in
the slightest. but it does. still. always?
i don't know. i work on it, i really do try,
but success has so far eluded me.

so i stop every once in a while in the middle
of a thought or an action and remember when i
have no wish to. some things bring it back
clearly. other things only remind me of one
or two things. hot air on a summer evening,
the expressway at dusk, songs, smells, the
color or texture of someone's hair. such a
fool. had i been more clairvoyant, i'd have
known what the future held, for all the signs
were there, glaring now in the way mistakes
and signs do long after the fact.

it doesn't bring tears anymore, you know. i never,
ever cry over it anymore. it just makes me look
very sad, i guess, for it never fails that when
those thoughts cross my mind whomever i'm with
will ask me what's wrong. "nothing," i say, still
lying. it's too long a story to go into, isn't it?

sometimes i even feel sorry for her. his character
is, i'm sure, the same as it always was. no one can
change themselves completely. bits and pieces of the
people we are come out here and there. his neediness,
all that stuff. hers too, i'm sure. sometimes i
laugh, but not very often. sometimes it is funny and
i know they're getting what they deserve.

look at me, obsessing over it still, long after the time
they've told me to "get over it," and "move on." those
words are so cruel and carelessly said when it's not you
having to "get over it" and "move on," aren't they? and
someone like me, who has never, ever taken love in any way,
shape or form other than seriously, well, what am i supposed
to do? be shallow so they can feel better? what would it
say about me if i were able to do that like they can? wouldn't
it paint me with the same brush as them? that's not something
i would ever want. that's not who and what i am. see, i like
to think that i can mean the things i say for a lot longer than
it takes for the words to come out of my mouth. but that's me.
apparently that's not everyone, and apparently, since they feel
that i'm the one who's "sick," i am the one who is wrong to feel
that words mean something more than just the way they make you
look.

enough.

i am Lot's wife, i think. i think the lesson in that story is
that when you leave something behind you, you should really never
look back, just take what you have to learn and always look forward.
and because i keep looking back, i am stuck in the salt of my own
regret, or something equally inane.

i've spent too much time on this already. weeks and weeks and just
too many stupid hours in the dark with these thoughts. if i keep
doing this i could conceivably go insane.

and i'm not ready for that yet.

maybe when i'm older.

denise

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