“Some things, they hurt – And they tear apart me – But I broke my word, and you were bound to see – And I cried at the curb – Feel my heart’s intention – Hold on, wait a minute – I left my consciousness in the sixth dimension – Left my soul in his vision – Let’s go get it” – Lyrics Wait a Minute! Willow
“Unsent Love? Hate? Letter”
Fiction. Based on True Conflicts.
This journal entry is inspired by true events. Some of the characters, names, businesses, incidents, and certain locations and events have been fictionalized for dramatic purposes. Any similarity to the name, character or history of any person is entirely coincidental and unintentional.
Dear Paramount Fallacy,
A few years, yes.. years ago we went to our first concert. Even with nearly twelve years of knowing each other and probably eight being together off and on, only one concert. We went to one of my favorite venues. A place I have been to many times with many other people. But on this night, we went because maybe, just maybe there was the slightest chance our favorite rapper would show up. He promised nothing as he was on an international tour. But Seattle, as was the case for us, was his home. And he could not stay away. Near the end of the night he manifested out of thin air onto the stage. The whole night we had been leaning against a wall. Well, your back was to the wall, and my back was on you. But in that moment when he came on stage we separated.
That night was the only night that venue felt otherworldly. It was the only time I noticed the gathered red velvet on the ceiling. I felt like we’d gone to some high society ball, not an underground Seattle rap concert. Even dressed in denim capris and a black zip up hoodie… I felt regal. I felt like those power couples that can take over the world and pick their teeth with Capitalism’s bones. That’s all I remember from that night. Gashes of red velvet, screaming my lungs out for a rapper, and your chest pressed against my back. You held me with an easy confidence, as if you knew we’d always be this, have this. I was yours, and that was that.
I don’t need to remember the rest of the night to know what happened. I am sure we got in your friend’s car, drove to wherever you all were crashing and you and I would have fallen asleep on whatever flat surface presented itself to us first. Or maybe we stayed somewhere I was dog sitting. What I know for a fact, we didn’t go home because we didn’t have one. All those years and we had a maybe home for three days. The rest of the time we were sleeping wherever you were crashing, where I was dog sitting, in a field, and in the beginning, my home.
Those early years formed me-into something that was paranoid and constantly carving away at her skin. Those years shaped me into some kind of beautiful, fretful, flighty thing that ran and ran and ran and ran. She was so naive. And I will never understand why she went back to you. When she found out about your drug use she was angry you betrayed her trust and lied. But most of all, she was angry for feeling as though the only reason you wanted and loved her was because the drugs burned a hole in your brain. It was the questioning your motives that hurt the most.
After the first time I kicked out, you went to Oregon to detox. When you came back you told me about who you stayed with and I knew you slept with her. But I didn’t care. By then I took whatever you did and told me in strides. I let you be whatever transient apparition you are and I let you leak venom all over my exposed heart. When I was with you, then and later, my vision caved in and all I felt was the tiny universe between our chests. I didn’t care about the other girls. When I was with you I felt wanted, because you wanted me. You wanted me all the time. Never ending little touches, on my hair, my face, my waist. I could ignore your hushed judgments on my weight. I could see past your twitchy fingers. Wash out your cigarette-alcohol taste from my mouth with sheer will power. All because I felt like you wanted me. That was more than enough for me.
Mostly, you looked at me with an intensity I have never experienced from anyone else. I always felt like you really saw me, really heard me. Maybe you did. In a sick, broken and sharp way our demons got on together. Probably because some of my demons are spawns of yours. Those early years you taught me how to isolate myself. Self sustain. See everyone, everything as an enemy or a cog in the machine. You taught me the machine was to be fought against. As a result, I fought and gnashed at everything that wasn’t you.
After that first split, I became like you. Transient. I let myself love the person before you again. She meant the world to me. If I loved anyone, truly loved anyone, it was her. Because what you and I had; I am not sure that is real love. But while I was with you, she’d fallen for someone else too. So when she and I came back together it was broken glass. The kind that falls from a shattered window and I leapt right through the opening, letting the shards tear me apart. After she and I had our second try… I was bloody ribbons. That’s when you came back. I let your intense wanting clot all my open wounds. Allowing you to become the scar tissue. That’s why I can’t wash you out. Your addiction.. Your desire is stitched into the scars that march up and down the seams of my body.
Another thing I loved about you, at no point did you care if people knew how much you wanted me. I don’t know if you ever loved me. I am not you. I can never know how you really felt. But God you did not care if your friends, strangers, potential roommates saw you holding, kissing, staring at me. You had a distinct pride in showing up with me on your arm, especially when you shouldn’t’ve. There were times when I’d gained weight or didn’t even try to cover my face; you did not care. When I was especially ashamed to be in me and to live in my body, you showed me off more often. You blatantly lied and told strangers I was your wife.
You know, when we got those tattoos…it meant nothing to me. Not really. It was yet another tattoo among my growing collection. Whenever I see the thin red lines peek out from under the ring I use to hide it, I want to rub the fucking thing right off. It’s a reminder, and it brings me nothing but shame. Don’t assume anything, I said shame and I mean shame. I feel no guilt towards you. We both made mistakes. Thank God our biggest mistake was the tattoo and not signing those papers when we had the chance. The things you have done to me, put me through… you are a criminal. You are my anti-hero. But God Almighty, I am too if I don’t admit to loving you. A fact I will take with me to my grave. Since I can’t get the law to prosecute you, I’ll do it. The punishment that fits your crime is withholding my daughter from you. More so, it’s withholding myself. Whether or not I die with this tattoo still on me, it’ll rot on your corpse, and my hand won’t be there holding yours. Which I know is all you wanted. I don’t know when or which of your transgression broke my heart too far. Maybe they all grew heavier and heavier until the crack succumbed to the weight.
All I know is, I still dream of you. Of our time together. I still feel you on my skin. Sometimes I wake up because I hear a bump in the night. Terrified you’ve finally found us and you’re going to take her away. Those are the early morning hours when I lay back down and see you laying next to me and no one else. I wish you weren’t there. Embedded so deeply into me. But I don’t know how to remove you. Sometimes when I wake up after dreaming about you, tears in my eyes, I don’t want you removed. Instead, all I want is that summer we spent sleeping in tall grass, counting stars and making love underwater.