infatuation
once i imagined our home
once i imagined our home. soft and mundane and forever.
i saw myself in the morning making you coffee, plating your breakfast. letting you pull me back into bed with the tangled sheets dotted with chrysanthemums or roses or polka dots or coffee spills probably and get into my hair and my mouth and my pants. giggling into your chest, tasting your meaty morning breath when our lips collide.
now i sit here trying to write about everything that never happened. outside my mind anyway. the light outside looks like something from a book and none of the words are coming out right. you see i simultaneously believe that i am the least lovable person in the universe and that also i am above everyone in every aspect imaginable.
once i imagined our home. it sat right next to a lake and at first we thought the view was beautiful but after a while the water got into the basement and only rose and rose and the whole house started to smell like mold and rotten eggs. suddenly you were full of cracks and all my truths were leaking from you. even the gentlest touch made me flinch. like you will never understand me. like i am a bad person, never enough for you. like you will not love me if i let you know me. like my stories and my paints and my notebooks and my poetry and my love, my body, my mind, it’s all stupid to you.
like you want me to be someone else for us to work.
i saw myself in the morning making you coffee, filling your favourite mug to the brim and bringing it and a neatly folded note to your bedside table. id kiss your forehead one last time and pack my things and be out the door before your 8am alarm went off.
the note said sorry sorry sorry. to me for staying or to you for leaving, time will tell.
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they say every person that comes into your life changes it. like when i am born my life is a blank sheet of paper and every person that enters it scribbles something on it. sometimes hastily, with weak coloured pencil or finger paint; sometimes drawn-out like, say, with an elaborate calligraphy quill. oil paints. watercolour.
when you die that paper, that drawn image, is all that is left of you. you left your mark on mine and i on yours and nothing is gained from discussing which is worse, who ruined the most.
so in time all i will be is my little drawing. that and a rotting corspe in some coffin under the ground. anyway i love you.
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this brought me to tears a little bit
✨