Gall, Sore Spot. Conversation Startless
Counting down my ribs, you are. Fingers slick with silver silt. You lecture me on appreciation. I don’t feel that all my uninviting is showing, rather, I am unabashed, prosaic and unblushing. All my negotiation is alone and exposed, in truth your attack comes completely at ease. I don’t feel a thing. I can’t feel a thing.
Things had been unpleasant at best. Unpopulated and sterile. I was surly in the face of friendship, unrefined and callous. I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry. Light appeared tapered thin and sour. When I sat outside and someone said ‘I Know What It Feels Like.’ I was so quick to wane my pleasantries and in my mind I snapped shut and snarled No You Fucking Don’t. I could have accepted good-intentions, even if they were misinformed. I stood and stubbed my cigarette out and went inside, instead.
When I begged someone not to do something I knew was inevitable and had accepted their actions would indeed be lecherous and I would feel terrible but it was unpreventable. Yet, still, when they confirmed what I knew they would, and I felt the pre-conversation smirk become illegible on my face and they called my name as I walked away and they cared, I guess. I could have just accepted that things were not the same, things were not secure or safe and they were entitled to do whatever they wanted with whoever they pleased. Rather, I felt ruined and didn’t even make it inside. On the ledge outside, I remember, one hand on my face, the other bent unrecognisable, unseen but outside, while they walked away. I left a black-fingered handprint on the wall in the hall, meters from my door. It’s still there. This mark which embodies all of that shrewd aching.
When I was invited to events and didn’t show up. When I made excuses. When I hurled all my force at doors in avoidance. When my friends weren’t my friends, they were my competition and I lost, always.
When you said ‘I Could Love You’. When I let someone else walk home in the abusive evening. When I sat cross-legged across from him and sneered accusations without any realisation of how I had been, how I was. How things were, looking at me instead of out of me. When I said ‘Don’t Touch Me.’ When I was annoyed at their presence, irritated by their help.
I’m so sorry. I am so disappointed in myself for how I acted. I am repentant, always. But I had lost the only two people I knew without certainty I loved, with no family-ties to their threadbare memory. No choice involved. You can only excuse actions to a thin line, though. I remember a doctor angrily exclaiming that no pain was too great to explain, during. Actions might be ignored, only for a time. Mine were inexcusable.
I was thinking only of myself. I am penitent and earnest. I am sorry.