My ears are filled with the sound of his rejection, and it is sweeter than the sound of his silence.
It is strange how we associate people, events with music. This song, "The Freshmen" by The Verve Pipe, takes me back to being curled up near the pillow of my bed on the night of my confession and his rejection (will these two words always be synonymous, parallel to one another?), laptop propped against my knees, listening to the song on repeat and crying the sort of disturbing tears that never seem to stop, the ones that leave you in utter disbelief, because they won't stop falling, like a broken faucet. So you ask yourself, am I broken?
And I ask myself now, is broken better than empty?
I have to keep reminding myself to blame him for it. I can't blame myself. Who in their right mind would put themself through this?
I'll never understand how it is possible to become so attached to another human being. Lately, love has become something of a fantasy to me, something that hopeless romantics made up to define something terrible and time-consuming, trying to make it sound more appealing to the other hopeless romantics who read or listen to their words. Desperately trying to thin the line between the definition of happiness and the definition of love. But I am starting to see the line. It is outside of the world that someone has trapped me in. I want happiness. Instead, I have love. Lucky me.
Why should I have to love anyone? Why don't I have control over my emotions? If it was my choice, I would detach myself from this feeling forever. Who needs it? If my life has been so void of romance thus far, maybe that's the way it should be. Why must I still love when my obvious fate is not knowing what mutual love feels like? Isn't mutual love the point of loving? Wasn't love invented to be something that is shared?
And it's a feeling I wish that he knew as well. Not just because I want him to care about me, but because I want to see him try to squirm out of the deathly grip of this torturous feeling, the same way I do every day of my life.
Because I hate him. I hate his guts. I hate the way he thinks he's funny. I hate the way he thinks that everyone wants to know what he thinks. I hate the way he talks to everyone else in a room before considering gracing me with his presence. I hate the way I can't enjoy listening to some songs just because they remind me of him. I hate the sound of his voice, because I never hear my name there anymore. I hate the way I can hear him walking when he wears his cowboy boots, so my mind still follows him when I have trained my lingering gaze not to. I hate the way he throws his hands around like an angry Italian whenever he's talking. I hate the way he feels the need to be brutally honest with everyone in the world, but made up some pathetic excuse for not going out with me, when we both knew that he just didn't want to go out with a girl so unconventional for his stereotype that it would be embarrassing, good personality or not. I hate the way he acts so standoffish when I try to talk to him. I hate the way he makes me hate everything. I hate the way he makes me hate myself.
Why do I love him?
No comments:
Post a Comment