truth- part II

The truth is X kissed me first, though I didn’t stop him.

I was crying already between kisses for what I wasn’t stopping him from doing. I was sobbing, and we were clinging between kisses for comfort, except there was no comfort from each other, no escape, and oh but it was a drunken mess.

It’s ok.. it’s ok.. we’re always going to miss each other a little.. it’s ok to feel like this sometimes, I tried to whisper in his ear before we started.

He gulped and said, I’ve missed you more than just a little.

And planted a kiss on my lips.

I kissed back.

Don’t stop kissing me, I stuttered.

If we stopped kissing, then what? Stay together? Never see each other again? What would we do in the minutes after we stopped kissing?

Bite, pull, tug, lie down on top of each other, kiss.

I’m going to kiss you forever, he bumbled. I swear that’s what he said. I would have laughed if it hadn’t twisted so much.

Just kiss.

The truth is too, I tugged off his shirt first, and all I had thoughts for was to have his skin close to me, to just cozy into it again. The skin I used to joke should be patented. The skin I used to joke I wanted to keep in my pocket at all times. His golden velvet.

I had this half-formed idea that I could crawl into that again and forget.

The truth is my shirt came off too, and my one nipple had already escaped from my bra, and he placed his tongue on that one nipple. His tongue stickings sideways comically out of his mouth. And he licked. And it was familiar, and I remembered this familiarity and I felt.. strange.

And the ugliest truth is he started to take off my pants, and I started to feel… queasy. And it was separate from the alcohol that was making my stomach still churn. He tugged them down, and then my panties. His familiar fingers on my clit. There was some pleasure. But my heart was breaking for him, for us, and I knew I didn’t actually want him there. Not fully. And he buried his mouth inside me, his eyes lost inwards with concentration, and I felt a tingle, but not fully. And somewhere between one lick and the next, I felt myself start to grow silent, inside and out, and it hit me that I was just waiting, abandoned to him, resigned. Realised that I just wanted to cum, but only because at least then this would be over. And this made me sad.

And he came up after I finally gave some kind of moan, and he lay by my side.. And I said sorry, sorry I couldn’t feel that ..completely.. too much .. pain. And it was true, my whole left side was pounding with the nightmare of it.

And this time I was really bawling, really in earnest, really drunken, inebriated, snotty, gaspy, sobbing, and he was holding and saying shh don’t, don’t, don’t-don’t-don’t.

He’s seen me cry like this too many times. And it didn’t feel good anymore his comfort.

It’s what I don’t want to understand, that he could do nothing really wrong, and I could still sit there and feel like I could not take it.


I knew after all the crying was over, my responsibility in this. I knew the drink was no excuse. I knew this was the worst I could have let happen.

I would understand it all better afterwards, in a couple of days, as he would finally sit and confess. And he would tell me how he’d fallen apart after we ended, and how he still woke up in the mornings and wanted to cry because he couldn’t believe that we were really not together. This is what he actually said. And it was so hard to hear, so hard to know I hurt him. He’d never shown a thing, and I didn’t want to believe. And a stoic part of me thought, why why why do you tell me this now, when I’ve finally distanced myself from you?

The truth is I still don’t fully understand why X and I ended.

Things die, but never do, die enough to not stay, but not enough to not remember. Things start to hinge off, maybe even fall off, but always eternal crumbs on your fingers, always a little corner of your life’s desire owned by its fingers.

(I’m sorry, so sorry)

The only thing that I can really say wore me out about him were things like his ‘ummm ok’ and his ‘sure whatever you say’ and his ‘weirdo’. None of it said cruelly, maybe almost affectionately, but something in it there that was hard to hear day by day. Can I confess something too? He rarely said or showed me anything that made me too excited either.

I came out of my depression all funny anyways. All restless. All confined. I needed out, out from everything. So I did it. And I started to pull my life back together. And I started to go and do the things I’ve wanted to. I started to un-grey.

And the truth is I did not fall apart.

I’ve missed him. I’ve wanted his companionship. I’ve been unable to believe it myself sometimes. But I did it.

How did you deal with it?, he would ask me during that talk. I just did, I thought. I had it easier, it was my choice, it was my loss to swallow.. It was nothing I would allow myself to mourn. There are some things you can’t grasp enough to mourn enough anyways. Mourn enough for what, to do what to myself, to bring back what?

What a cold bitch I’ve become, I thought.

He tells me I'm his best friend, the only one who knew him the most, the only one he ever talked to , and I think, you just haven't learned to open up.

He tells me that his feelings will never ever change for me and I will always be his one. And I think, yes it will, and no I won’t. People change, pass through. The heart is big. I’m just a fading stretch mark. You love, you lose, you love again. Time heals all. And all that jazz.

He knows it too, deep down, that’s the thing. He’s just afraid.

Is this cynical? What if this marble feeling I wrote about really is me turning ugly, me turning away from life? Am I the cruel girl who’ll turn this sweet man bitter? Have I become bitter myself?

(There was a girl who met every boy like an ocean she could jump into.. )

It seems empty sometimes. My ‘victory’ these past 6 months. All my desires and hopes, my cock smells and cunt aches, my writing, my piano, everything I’ve learnt, everything I’ve wanted to know about, everything I’ve enjoyed. The strength, the pains that have begun to only go down to a certain point. That this part you can’t touch might actually exist. All these thoughts and ramblings. Not just the sex , but all of this I’ve lived, I’ve yearned for, so hard to define, this childhood dream everyone has that their life won’t just..be. What if I am putting myself out on a limb, branching off from my family, my friends, questioning and poking away at everything I’ve known, everything I’ve never dared to know… for nothing?

What if it’s time to grow up? What if I’m growing up all wrong?

What if this is all shallow and inconsequential? And I am actually getting further and further away, and this blog is just a testimony to this?

Sometimes I feel a fraud. Delusionary, not visionary. Cynic, not searcher. Greedy, not joyful. What if nothing will ever be enough for me?

(And how much of what I search for do I deserve anyways? Well-rounded, they say, really just not pointed enough, really just rolling down whatever hill comes my way. What have I got? No calling. No inspiration. Nothing. Just this scattered mind and the day after tomorrow. )

And I’m wondering if this was actually the best of what I was going to get. That I’d been given a real true-blue love, someone who would have stayed by my side. But I was just blind to it. Ungrateful.

Somewhere was a man crying because he thought he’d found the one. And then the one had just walked away.

He would have done it all for her. And she had thrown it all away.

For what?

What’s gone is gone, my X. I know my sorry is not enough. I know it hurts. Hurts me too but not enough to stay. I know I can’t help you with this. I know we’ll be ok. I know all the phrases for us.

And I know what we’ll call that night. I know how it goes.

Closure.