it had been three years since we've seen each other
I was driving to meet her
my hands glided through the steering wheel, i was thinking
if sweat would slide down and droplets would enter through the crevices of the car
wetting a long-rusted piece of failed engineering, making it stuck
right as i took a turn, causing a crash. the accident would show up on the news. days after our meeting, then she would understand. ''oh, she died''.
but she would think it's her fault. so i better wipe my hands
i stopped the car on the kind of place it's normal for people to go on dates.
as i stepped in, i noticed she was already there even though i came in early. there was no real place for us both on this planet.
her smile marked my grave, i've been dead ever since we met
a pale ghost wrapped in a person's semblance. i had misunderstood how much seeing her again would affect me.
we didn't say much, nor talk much, we never did. it was a sensory experience.
beyond pedagogical usefulness, none of this was useful. nothing i've done with her was useful.
we exchanged pleasantries, reminisced, all the time we were there we were silently reminiscing, trying not to let the other know,
hiding it all, but our eyes snitched every little lie, they were watery
hers was reddening, perhaps she was about to explode
i asked her if she was about to explode
she said yes, we laughed, ordered lattes, fell into silence
i had time to admire her but my mind couldn't figure out how she looked like
it was a mix of that day with the grey sky and the first time she smelled the ocean.
her glasses were new, i pointed that out
she responded with a warning ''don't go there''
go where? were we not going beyond small talk? did we met just to pass the time?
maybe we did, she reached out. i had the custom of not keeping contact with anybody
made it seem i didn't care. i told her i did care, even though i didn't text.
she didn't believe it. i asked her how can she not believe me after we've spend so much time seeing each other naked
that was a bit much, was i trying to scare her off?
she said she believed, i didnt believe that
youve always been unhinged, she said, have i?
have i? i looked up to the ceiling and thought of the movie Videodrome,
remember we made a promise to each other never to stop talking? slipped out of me
that was a shit promise. i didn't give her time to answer.
you've been saying shit behind my back, you've been trying to play off as superior, you've been a general asshole and still you wanted us to meet, why then? just so you can be mean to me again? you're mean, that's what you are, you're a damn narcisist, you don't even know how to be good, you're so freaking disconnected to how people actually are and you could never be with someone as sensitive as me, you know what you need? you need a door, you need an emotionally constipated door with no sense of self-respect just so you can keep fishing for compliments while making everything about you and when they start to see through your bullshit you just love-bomb them in to oblivion so they get all nice and numb just how you like it and you'll use them for your every need while denying every part of their own sensibilities, if they open their mouth about their problems you'll just shut them down and redirect, redirect, redirect, you won't have qualms in straight up saying what they're saying is wrong and shouldn't be said for your own sake, to protect your own shitty unresolved shit that you think it's so put together but it's not, you're coping, i'm coping, we're all fucking coping but you're not honest with yourself because you're a narcisist, you hear that, right? and you say people should go to a therapist while i don't fucking know what you do in yours because it's clearly not fucking working because you deny people at their hardest and while nobody expects someone to fix their shit, people should hold each other like fucking friends, and yea? friends? the way you kept saying you love your friends? bullshit, you love yourself and you surround yourself with glazers, with people that do not have an ouce of originality and you still say i'm too sad, too fucked up, too depressed, well guess what, bitch? when i driving here, i was fantasizing the sweat from my hands locking up my driver's wheel and sending me facefirst into a fucking walmart, but all i wanted was to just say I'm going to kill myself! this is what you do, you turd, you make me feel guilty of this, all i want to is to think about dying and i have to go through some fucking mental gymnastics while i could just say I'm going to kill myself!
woah, stop, she held a hand up, barely able to be heard
i'm going to kill myself, im going to kill myself! i. am. going. to. kill-
she grabbed my hand, i tried to pull back but couldn't. everyone around us was disturbed, i had just made several someones have a bad day.
fuck you! why the fuck did you text me? after all you've done to me?
i really shouldn't have, she said. damn right you shouldn't have.
it was a really bad idea to see you again, she carried on, i don't want to see you in my life ever again
nor do I! not after how you treated me. i bet you have shit to say about me too, don't you?
i don't care anymore, you can go rot alone in your stupid sad tragedy you call life, i'm going to be happy elsewhere.
she left, tears staining her coat. the air was unbearable.
it's been a rough day, i said, turning to the nearest table. they were shocked. i payed, apologized to the staff and left before someone came up to me.
i walked outside and it was a bright morning.
as i wrote this i could not help but feel many things. my process of writing based on how well i can connect with my emotions. even though there are many aspects of this conversation that would seem to work out differently if it was real, i made it as it was. the place they went was populated with people that wouldn't react as to interrupt them. the nature of the person being talked to was complacent enough to let me rant. all the emotions were real. it is at once a crushing thing and part of my salvation. in many ways and with many people i've felt what i wrote. and i continue to feel. all my poems, my stories and writing is is emotions. transcribed in uncollected and blurry images, all there is to do is to dot the canvas with the tip of my brush until it has form. i have referred to this in previous poems as impressionism. in a way it is like that, it is a similar technique. only whats' painted is the imagination. i'm not good at it.
there is no thinking, no orchestration, nothing, it is just that.