Tuesday, April 7, 2009
you got into mine
the last time, a blank stare into the sky.
we laid in bed with my door locked hoping no one would ever come home. I invited her over to listen to records, spinning side one of a Smiths album and when the music neared its end neither one of us got up to turn it over.
lights off and music turned up loud is how she wanted it. instead i saw everything, the scars on her arms, the bruise on her neck, sunlight across her wintery pale skin. naked. as if to make it better, i slipped inside her. easily. she struggled against my weight, i held her wrists down. a game we played or didn't but something we knew, something familiar. pretending not to want or feel or be anywhere safe for to long.
don't ask about the cuts or bruises. I never read the journal she asked me to read. afraid it would have only revealed her a thief, liar and poor speller. I wanted involved with her body. what she knew of me was simple. what i wanted her to know was this- presume everything with me is better. my music and promises, sex with the windows open during the day. say anything, i dare you, say my name with "fuck me" in front of it. panic.
days would go by when we wouldn't speak. love is a beautiful mystery that way, like the car that dropped her off in my driveway and the man who was driving?. school work was secondary to our teen angst and lyrically chaotic sexual encounters. in fact we hardly ever spoke inside school, never held hands, or passed each other notes, we were not friends. to others it would have appeared we didn't exist to each other at all. she would meet me, be with me and it was agreed upon as so. it was a random conversation she overheard, where i was apparently saying i didn't mind making a girl cry. from then on she'd be mine, she said. from then on she'd bother me to come over and listen to records or draw her or read to her. she'd call me asking me to tell her what dirty things i'd to do to her. Im coming over, im coming over so you can hurt me.
I would make her cry and i tell her to go home. she was happy being used and told to leave. this was our sick game. I minded the men who she took rides from, i minded the bruises and cuts that mysteriously would appear and disappear. i would guess i loved her and so I played my part and she played hers.
her bruises rubbed off on my skin, a clever mix of make-up and paint. i wore them smudged like dark tattoos. I'd look at myself in front of a mirror, believing they were mine. i wondered if i could ever be that broken. I was good at making up stories but not as much living them. she was as close as i would ever get. I looked out the window after her, a blank stare into the sky, she was gone.