witty-remark's Diaryland Diary

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Photobucket I wanted so badly to sleep this evening. I wanted so badly for the boy on the c-train to leave so I could take his spot and rest my head against the window and drop into this thick creamy batter of dreams. Like a strawberry slowly descending into a bowl of warm rich chocolate; completely submerged in all its syrupy decadence. But I couldnít sleep. And he didnít leave. So I nestled my head between my hands and slept in 30 second intervals. Every time I closed my eyes I saw you. And I saw what I imagined she looks like. I think of you at least once everyday. At least once a day, this feeling of regret methodically washes over me. An hourglass of remorse that never empties because at the last drop, it flips and starts all over again.

I donít know why I plucked you from my life. Commitment. The fact that everything was going perfectly. That you prioritized me above all else. It was too overwhelming. So hard for me to swallow. Knock me down a few notches. Knock me out a few times. I wonít ever do what I did to you to anybody else. Is this how you felt afterwards? This, I donít know, this feeling of tiny weights, millions, no billion, even more, trillions of microscopic weights hanging from every fibre of your being and gradually pulling you apart at the seams?

I indulge myself in your texts too much when you tell me you miss me. I fantasize about being the other woman. Of tempting you. You told me I could; how easy it would be. Iím ice cold, Iím ice cold, Iím ice cold. Until you tell me Iím beautiful and Iím already melting in a frying pan; sizzling. Evaporating into thin air. I want you to swallow my vapours. I want to glaze your insides like a medicine that makes you sick. Sick of her.

Youíre the first boy I felt bad about hurting. All the others wore veneers. So Iíve cracked a few masks, theyíve got more faces lying around. But not you. Every punch, slap, and scratch bruised you. Flesh and blood. I could tell right away because when I cast stones and listened for empty pangs, I just heard a thud instead.

So here I am pouring everything Iím ready to give to you into somebody else with too many fractures of their own. Everything I spill into him just seeps out and thereís no room for to him feed me because Iím stuffed. But we stick together because we like how our chests rise and fall in synch and the way ďI need you" sounds when it unfurls from our tongues; velvety and stale, like a red carpet that unwinds into a back alley.
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6:33 p.m. - Friday, Oct. 24, 2008

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