I’m on my way back from the gas station that’s just up the street from the the room I’m renting. I’ve got a small bag full of Corn Nuts, cigarettes, and Sobe. I know what you’re thinking… Yeah. I would have preferred a Mountain Dew, but at least the Sobe tastes like juice. I mean, it’s got vitamins and shit, right?
I wander past a house, and get a whiff of something that smells home cooked. Maybe a little burnt on the underside, but probably still nutritious. I start sobbing. I can’t help it. I’m grateful that the lights are dim, and street is empty. I’m sure my eyes are puffy, and I can feel my nose running. I look hideous when I cry. I’m an ugly crier. That’s why I like to cry alone… among other reasons.
See, when I was growing up, dinner time was always the worst part of the day. My parents insisted on eating together. They probably read it in some idiotic book that upper-middle class white people read about rearing children. It was supposed to instil some sense of family unity — or normality — in me. But, I just remember sitting there every night, alternatively staring between my knife, and my folks chewing their food in silence.
Praying that I could make it to my last bite without anyone saying anything stupid, or ugly. Hoping that my mother wasn’t going to do something crazy, or willing my dad not to do something pathetic; she was so volatile, he was so weak.
Inwardly cringing at the memory of shattered plates and twisted faces; born of frustration, wielded in anger, flung with contempt. Trying to think about anything else, in fear that focusing on the high probability of violence, or misery, would manifest it…
Smell is a powerful sense. It’s deeply connected to memory, sometimes even more so than sight. Smells sneak up on you, especially pleasant ones; filling you first with want, then nostalgia, and then, in some cases, sadness.
I remember my parents, and how much they hated each other, even though they had been sincerely in love — at some point anyway. I think about how alone I felt sitting at that table with them. Separate for the sake of survival, because if I dropped my guard and let them close? The toxicity of their feelings would have infected my vital organs.
My parents used me, as leverage against each other — or as a reason to hate the other. My love has always been a weapon for someone else to use, for the most devious, or hurtful of reasons.
I remember my parents… I remember myself as a little girl, and the best moments being when the house was quiet; I played by myself, making up stories for all of my toys. I think about my past, and I know that it’s no wonder that I’m alone. I’m not always lonely. Most of the time, I enjoy the solitude; the calm; the simplicity.
But still… I think it would be nice to be close to someone. I have nothing to tether me to this world, and no support structure to keep me from crumbling. Sometimes I’m afraid that I’m just going to disintegrate and blow away on a mild breeze.
Sure. I’ve known love. I feel love. But it’s always a tentative sort of feeling. There’s always fine print, or restrictions and conditions. It’s never quite the right fit. Too tight and I run. Too lose and I drift. Too strong and I fizzle out. Too weak and I fade away.
Sometimes, I’m afraid that I’m too difficult to really get to know. There are so many levels you have to navigate, or walls to hurdle. Secret doors and hidden rooms. Even when you think you’re moving forward, you’re probably further behind than you suspect. Just when you think you’ve got me, I get going very slowly — slipping just beyond your fingertips.
I’ll be understanding, when you get frustrated, or forgetful. Just long enough to realize that you were never right for me to begin with. Maybe that’s true, or maybe it’s just what I convince myself because I don’t want to feel so vulnerable and disappointed. I want to feel special, cherished, and kept… but I won’t trouble you about it… Because I want to know that you know I’m worth the attention and affection.
I’ll probably write it in a letter, that maybe you’ll be too distracted, or busy to read. I get it. It’s okay. Really. I’ve been training for this my whole life.
I’m used to being alone.
- imperfectlyimp3rfect reblogged this from ordinarywonder
- shitsidonttelltheworld likes this
- puzzledinalabyrinth likes this
- re-dblogs reblogged this from writerbloc and added:
- a-a-s-i-y-a likes this
- loqui likes this
- writerbloc reblogged this from ordinarywonder
- supersatellite likes this
- ink-blooded likes this
- manfrommontreal likes this
- moaningatmidnight likes this
- twohousesoftheholy likes this
- intergalacticdestination likes this
- kimberlys-ghost likes this
- deviously-dangerous reblogged this from ordinarywonder and added:
- eternallycoilingserpent likes this
- serenityroze likes this
- psychaote likes this
- neverthegreyer likes this
- theincomplete likes this
- midnightvalkyrie likes this
- smrfgl likes this
- thesealivesinme likes this
- theredsun likes this
- dylanotoolewriting likes this
- blankslate likes this
- devilsfuckingprostitute likes this
- projectparis likes this
- aclockworkplum said: I think we’d make good friends.
- almondcowboy likes this
- davidwduffy likes this
- aclockworkplum likes this
- poetdreamer likes this
- johnnypitt likes this
- awakenedphilosopher likes this
- stealingneverland likes this
- bluesandbarebones likes this
- submarinedreams likes this
- brittanyloggins said: Noelle, for real, all these beautiful words are giving me a high that I am afraid to come down from!
- cateyesindisguise likes this
- brittanyloggins likes this
- the-mind-of-rueberry likes this
- ordinarywonder posted this