clarajane

4

You’re scared.

My eyes are closed.

You get comfortable.

I let go.

You hold on so tight everything slips.

I trust you. I fall. You drop me off the ledge of safety into the pool of contentment and I’m drowning

Drowning

Drowning in your indecision and cruel compliments. Smashed by the wave of your careless eyes, and I go down, seeing only you as you fix your eyes on the horizon. My chest is water, my lungs hitch, my eyes go dark.

So I’m a ghost of a girl. The shell of a woman you can’t love because you love her too much to let go of what she is. I’m nothing more than a high five and an easy laugh at your jokes. I’m not worth the risk, not worth the time. I’m not worth loving or hating or adoring or craving or fighting for. You think you can ride on our friendship because you’re scared to jump; it’s already sinking.

A Something for Someone

You are a someone. That’s all.
I’m not looking for an anyone, just a someone.
And I found you.

It’s not a poem, just a writing.
A collection of words for my spirit,
and it is simply
something.

I like it when we talk.
There are question marks and periods.
Full sentences and finally,
finally I’m not nervous.

Today I watched for you,
maybe to cross the street.
Reminded myself you moved,
but I’ll see you on my birthday.

I remember and ache.
Your book sits on my shelf.
I bought it for you just in case,
went back to that bookstore.

In case you were a someone.

Protected: Forever

I’m not your Limbo Girl

FACT NUMBER ONE:

If we go to a birthday party, you will learn two things.

The part of the invitation that says “No gifts please” really means “Bring gifts at your own discretion so that those who can’t or forgot to do so don’t feel bad”.
I’m good at limbo.

What makes someone good at limbo? I like to think I have a flexible back. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I’m still trying to grow a backbone in the social scene.

NUMBER OF TIMES I’VE SAID “NO” TO SOMEONE THIS WEEK:

FACT NUMBER TWO:

I’ve never broken up with someone. Ever. My job is to be so loyal it would put the honeybee that keeps coming back to its lavender to shame. I’m the supporter, the listener, the honeybee. And I hate limbo.

Have you ever heard someone use the word “limbo” and put the word “in” before it? Like two parts of the Red Sea. Bring them together and you can’t cross anymore. You can’t cross because you’re so busy making up your own mind that your mind doesn’t know what it’s made of. So here we are, “in limbo”, as I bend over backwards for you and I to cross. I can stay here for weeks, even months. I’ll wait and I’ll wait and I’ll wait until the peaches aren’t in season and I need your Canada mittens to keep warm. I’ll sit in the pool of indecision and soak up the rays of time spent without a name. It’s 49 degrees in December when your cold shoulder drops the stick. The limbo ends and the closing scene shows me laying there. Back collapsing, chest cracking, cheeks burning. Cut scene, roll credits, your name appears in 11pt font for barely a second.

Was this your plan all along? To keep me here until the wind caught your eye, whipping through the leaves of a sweeter maple? I feel sad for you. Sad you couldn’t tell me yourself, sad you made me feel something over nothing, sad for you leaving sad me to be sad for us on my own.