Some people hide their skeletons in dark, cobwebbed corners in their closest buried under misplaced socks, old magazines and denial. But I crawl out of bed when insomnia wont let me rest, open the closet door and have tea with my past mistakes- and I shake hands with the long, cold boney fingers of regret and pain healed over with ragged, ugly scars- and I wonder what makes people prefer to keep it hidden away only to pop up after one too many drinks or another unhappy ending you secretly knew you could have prevented if you swallowed the discomfort and made friends with the hurt.
I forgive those who never deserved a second chance or third or fourth of fifteenth and I lick the wounds in silent self-loathing- their names bringing memories as sharp as knives and I can feel my resolve slip with every unanswered call and text mistakingly thinking I can get my point across better with silence than the words filling my throat and sitting heavy on my chest it is no wonder I have panic attacks at the thought of standing up for myself- I was raised to keep quit duck my head and avoid confrontation- And I could hate them better if they would just … let me if they kept my name from their lips and took my silence as the loudest kind of noise but I know my phone is beeping in the other room and it is getting harder and harder to keep pretending my spine isn’t weak from all this bending over backward to keep the peace.
It was all fluorescent lights, and vinyl covered booths and I laughed for the first time in more months than I care to admit- and I let a stranger run his fingers through my hair and fantasized about the person across the faux wood tabletop- a man who would take me to plays and other countries, who will sit with me until 3AM on a Friday night discussing everything and nothing and enjoying every moment of each other’s company. And there you are all the way across town in bed instead of next to me and I don’t even know the names of your ex-girlfriends, if you’ve ever had your heart broken- if my actions are even capable of sending a ripple across your calm surface. Would you even care if I told you I had more fun in five hours without you than I have in eleven months at your side…
“Ihop On A Friday Night”- 11-30-13- jessicagadziala
Forgive them. I know they led you around by your throat or heart but the bitterness will eat you from the inside out and the boys that left you to sit by your phone or cry in the shower surely don’t waste their time thinking about that time you called them an asshole and how they just cant let that go. So set them… no… set yourself free.
Stop apologizing. I know you were born female and were raised with “I’m sorry” tripping off your tongue but sometimes it will feel so much better to say you did nothing wrong and you are not going to grovel to avoid a fight.
And love yourself- or if you cant do that- make yourself someone different dye your hair change your city dress up in a tight dress, high heels, and streetwalker red lipstick on a Tuesday night and meet strangers- let them call you something new- detach from who you have been or have been pretending to be for years.
“Advice For An Upcoming New Year”- 11-28-13- jessicagadziala
l So you called him or answered him or whatever after boasting for the world to see that you were stronger than that.
ll And calling him didn’t solve anything, did it? (like you already knew) he kissed you and massaged your neck until you were practically purring under his touch. But he didn’t call you today again. The same old cycle this ridiculous vicious circle you keep allowing yourself to be pulled into until you feel ill.
lll It is okay to be a bitch. You cant always worry that you are hurting his feelings- he smashes yours with a hammer a dozen times a week. And his opinion shouldn’t be the thing that alters your behavior anyway. Let him nurse his wounds with his friends and his video games (that he has been using as an excuse to not see you for a week at a time, for months). Let him learn how it feels to know that you are no longer just a phone call away.
lV And for goodness sakes, woman… don’t fucking call him.
I cant wash him out of my hair even though it has completely grown new since the last time his fingers stroked its softness from my scalp to my hips- I cut it all off and felt naked and unprotected without its fullness to hide behind- but somehow he is there deep in the root, forever- and I cant unfeel his hands no matter how many others have stroked me cheek to toes and everywhere inbetween I can feel his fingers bringing chills and goosebumps and wonder. and I cant erase these scars on my heart my thighs and wrists every inch of me screams with his memory.
I could write a million lines in a hundred poetry books and every word would drip heavy of your name even ones about other men who have come since you left me standing with my heart in my hands- somehow you would be there just under the surface making my similies and metaphors about love trip clumsy and gracelessly fall on their faces.
I couldn’t get back two years of my life spent worrying myself to ulcers over someone who could never love me as much as he claimed. And I cant erase the person it made me become weak and passive and so consumed with someone else that I forgot how to be myself. But I could wear clothes I wouldn’t be caught dead in three years ago and I could give up friends and family and coffee and food and I could bury myself so deep in sorrow that I took blades to my own skin and force myself to fall into bed with a virtual stranger and spent two hours in the shower after trying to wash the regret away and you could cut off sixteen inches of hair that he once loved running his fingers through and pierce things and date boys your mother would never allow into her home and drink too much and dance with strangers and take too many chances and try to bury him underneath the rubble of new mistakes and memories until it doesn’t hurt.
“Until It Doesn’t Hurt”- 11-25-13- jessicagadziala
I swear this razor only begs to kiss my skin on nights like this too long and lonely and overflowing with thoughts of him- though the “him” has changed three times in two years I can count the disappointment in scars instead of days or weeks or months anymore- and I guess it is an evolution of sorts- I have a bottle of pills hidden in a shoe under my bed and I haven’t looked at it like an option (a final end) since that first one chose other arms to fall into and leaving me with his goodbye, his memory and his habit of finding relief in the form of sharpened objects and painful red reminders.
“Painful Red Reminders”- 11-25-13- jessicagadziala
Don’t call him. It wont solve anything to reach out because the nights are getting longer and colder. Take a hot shower, drink a cup of tea and go to bed early for a change. I know the temptation can feel stronger than your need to cut your hair when life becomes stale- but you will only regret it like the two years it took for all of it to grow back again. Don’t give in. He needs to know that you will not settle- for a man who wont introduce you to his friends or see you on the weekends or tell you he loves you. And don’t answer him either. This might even be harder than not calling him because maybe him reaching out first is a sign that he is changing maybe he will buy you flowers or candy or tell you to get dressed up and take you to a fancy restaurant- but that is just your weakness speaking you know that he only ever calls so you will come over to watch Friends reruns and have sex. And he certainly isn’t calling to tell you that after a year he has realized he loves you and doesn’t want to lose you. So don’t pick up. Let your voicemail tell him how you wish him well but he can go fuck himself if he thinks he can dance around you forever. So for God’s sake- have some self worth and don’t call him.