Acid Tongue

Sometimes I feel older than I pretend to be and maybe you know this. Maybe you can see the stories written behind my eyelids.  Maybe you catch a glimpse of it every once in a while, on the rare occasions that I let my guard down, the days the weariness seeps into my voice. It’s then you realize that I keep a lot of things to myself, things I keep hidden because they taste too tart in my mouth. Sometimes I wish I’d talk about things more, but maybe it’s a good thing in contrast to the way people spit nonsense back and forth like watermelon seeds.  There are things I’d like you to uncover, like sand-buried treasure. Except it’s not really that, it’s more like the broken pieces of pottery you might find in a garden. Broken and tucked away in old suitcases and underneath couch cushions, maybe I’ll show you sometime. I try so hard not to care, but maybe I’m tired of that. Maybe I want you to know that there are things I want you to uncover, there are things I am afraid of, things I want to say and things I want you to hear. If I whisper these stories, unraveling like a ball of thread, will you promise to listen?

You were my first love, before I knew what a mature relationship was. The sweet innocence of a childhood romance… we played outside and told stories. I fell in love with you at the age of 12. Some may say that’s too young, but I knew it was real love. It felt just as real as the love I have felt at the age of 20. I knew you in your chubby, awkward pre-teen phase. You knew me before I cared about fashion. When I wore skater shoes, because I thought I had to dress like the music I listened to. We spent every Christmas together. 

I just love you.

Words demand explanation. They require analysis. They are the construction and expression of my thoughts. Of my heart. But they can’t describe it. They can’t describe any of it. They can’t tell you how deep the memories are, or how often I think of them. They can’t scream what I really want to say. They are the mask of how I really feel and they try to disguise the pain, but someone will strip it away. And someone will make those words worthless.

So what is a word worth? Nothing. What are three words worth? Nothing. But we say them anyway, because you know. You know, more than anyone what they mean. You know when I say I love you, I really mean that those three words can’t describe what it is we have. When I say you’re amazing, I know the word is just a cover; a quick way for me to remember all the things that amaze me about you, a mask for the memories we share, a disguised version of our adventures together. And I really believe that you know, when I say I miss you, it’s not just that. I miss you every moment, and I miss just what your name means to me. It means an alphabet of sounds and letters and words. But none of them really mean anything, because words are based on trust, they rely on how truly and deeply we feel. Remember, always, that they don’t mean anything, they are letters and they are constructions, but we deconstruct them every day and we twist them; we manipulate them so that they say what we want them to. But no word, no shape, no photograph could ever twist so far that it could begin to explain even a little bit of how I feel.

If I had, had the choice…I would have chosen to be the one who goes through you like a tornado in a southern Missouri town, a hurricane in the Florida keys. And without warning, I would knock you down. I’d knock you out. I’d kiss you good-bye. If I had the choice I’d be the one who made you sit there, watching as I left. But I didn’t.

I want hot tea and long letters. I want to read long love letters from him, but I don’t believe that he loves me the way he thinks he does. Sometimes I think I’m all used up; I’m the grit under people’s nails, I’m the girl who looks good in pictures, I’m the one who listens but never says anything. I walk like I’m apologizing for living. I’m tired of feeling, I’m tired of not feeling. I’m tired of living in a world full of ghosts. When I do speak, all that reverberates is the rust on the edge of the razor that lies under my tongue. My heart is scorched sand, burned by August asphalt. I’m the condom that broke, I’m the person who can be loved but never wanted, I’m the risk never worth taking.

I like colors that are subtle.

I like wide, open spaces.

I like the idea of solitude. 

I like wanderlust. 

I like lazy days in bed.

I like songs that are soft. 

I always seem to dwell on things and make them seem much more than what they really are. We are too different and I’m too angry all the time and you hate the way I say “nevermind” but I’m learning to turn my restlessness into something smooth and calm so I can see it more clearly. I refuse to let you influence my feelings and I refuse to dwell on something that might possibly mean more to me than it does to you; I refuse to be tethered by figments that are the product of my over-active imagination. 

You’re too young for the way you move, for the things you tuck away, and I’m too young for the way I speak, for the things I don’t say. We’re both too young for how well we carry pain around. Someone once said I have a way with words because I know about suffering, but you were already raw and bleeding when I got my first bruise. You were tragic before I ever was. We would have made a great team — the rejects, the hated, the tragic — cape and everything. Instead of saving the city, we could have watched it burn, could have set other people on fire, for once, buried them in the ashes of our own shoes, our fucked up lives. We wouldn’t have, I know. I like to think I’m not bitter enough for that. I know you wouldn’t have, but maybe I would cause I’m a little fucked up and a little broken and I don’t apologize nearly as much as I should, but the times I looked at you and I thought things like it’s not fair, Vivian, it’s not fair while we’re both bleeding on college campuses and I should hate myself, I should, because there were conversations we should have been able to have sober, and you can see me, somewhat raw and finally honest, I can see why all those girls wanted to suck the universe from underneath your skin, so maybe they could catch a little bit of your magic and mystery, pieces of you to carry home later.

I remember standing at the top of a mountain with you and seeing the world for the first time.

I remember standing in the New Mexico desert and watching you rip out a piece of me that was old and rotten, and then feel you put me back together. 

I remember wanting to trace the freckles on your back into constellations.

I remember watching you sleep.