Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

I Am What I Am

I realised this morning that she has let herself into every aspect in my life.
Late at night,
she stands next to my bed,
keeping me from sleep with that stupid, simpering smile she used to do,
just for me,
and it never stops.

It doesn’t end there either.
I had the great displeasure of discovering that the entirety of Mark Owen’s discography is about her.
He never met her,
but when he was warbling “What We Already Know”,
I realised that she was everything,
and everything fell into place.

My summers in solitude,
back and forth on the swings,
so desperate to text her again, but trying to show some restraint,
half way through the Green Man album,
it was all about her.
It was like this tiny man from a town far away had seen our stupid little love story,
two stupid little girls, never knowing what to say,
and he wrote song after song until he had a record to sell,
and even now,
the opening notes of Makin’ Out make me desperate to text her, again, and I have to hide my phone,
because restraint is something I lost with age.

Over Christmas,
I filled my kitchen with all the foods my family prefer,
some kind of ritualistic offering,
because now that they know what I am,
I will live the rest of my life convinced that they won’t stay,
so I decided to feed them until they were too tired to leave,
and it was all fine,
I was coping just fine with my bad coping mechanisms until I saw something in the cupboard.
I hadn’t even thought as I bought it,
packed it into a bustling bag for life,
carried it home on the bus,
but face to face with a tin of custard, in the cupboard,
I had no choice but to think of her.

It’s just the food she likes,
songs that could be about anybody,
smiles on a face I can barely recall, when I really try,
and my God, I try,
holding the pain to my heart and sobbing my way through my Hail Marys.

It happens,
almost by design,
it’s just part of life,
just something that happens when you first meet love.
She is so sweet and so exciting,
and you can’t help but let her live in every part of your life,
until she exists everywhere and you are breathless,
bounding through life like a puppy who is finally allowed outside,
or a butterfly that has seen the sun for the first time,
but it never lasts.

She stays everywhere, long after she is gone,
inescapable and still so beautiful,
but you can never get lost like you did that first time,
and you’ll be breathless,
battling against breaking point after breaking point.
Every reminder of her is a reminder that it’s just her favourite food in the cupboard,
just a song that reminds you of her,
just the memory of the first smile that showed you what love could be.

I am just up the road from her house,
it’s just a few stops on the bus,
and her number never changed.
I know her,
she’s a hopeless romantic,
and if I turned up at her door,
dripping with roses and all my confessions,
maybe it would be more than her favourite food in my cupboard,
more than a song that reminds me of her,
more than a memory that drives me insane,
but,
of course,
I never get on that bus.

I have been in a long term relationship with self loathing for so long,
and I’m not the unfaithful type.

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