Redemption

This is not a sentimental piece.
His eyes aren't as blue as I remember, and his grin is more lopsided.
He's still charming but somehow though I see this it doesn't give me butterflies anymore.
I look at him, not with disgust or anger or hurt, but with a cool calculated assessment.
He talks about you, darling.  He talks about long-ish blond hair and sparking blue eyes.  We both talk about you.  You are my person, but to him you are the one who got away, and always will be.
I think you know this.
Someday maybe, three-five-ten-fifteen years down the road I will be dancing at a wedding, your wedding.  Maybe you will marry that boy, or maybe you will marry the smart sensitive boy you are with now, or maybe you will marry some other one who has yet to waltz into your life.
This I know:
Whatever boy you marry, I hope he looks at you just the same way this one does.  He is broken, we are all broken, but in his own broken way he cares.
This is cruel to write, It's tactless and I should not say it I know.  But.
In losing my own beautiful brown eyed love I have to have something to believe in.
I am glad I saw him, I am glad I have heard him talk about you in this way.
I believe in redemption and I believe in second chances.  Perhaps he is not the devil, but he is not what I want, not anymore.  He is not my puzzle piece. 
Sometimes I wonder who will be at my wedding, sitting next to me as you look lovely in green (blue?) down the line.  Sometimes I wonder who will be next to you at yours.
Either way, I think we both have good options.

I believe in fairy tales, yes.  And we are going to get our happily ever afters.

Happily Ever After.

I believe in true love.  I believe in fairy tales and happy endings and prince charming.  Go ahead, call me naive, I dare you. 
I just know that when you kissed me that night under the street light you sucked out all the poison and brought me back to life with a gasp. 
Life is a fairy tale, except there was a Jeep instead of a pumpkin and I seem to be both princess and wicked witch.
I will have my happy ending, I will have my happily ever after.
When I cease to believe that, I cease to exists as myself at all.
So be my Prince Charming, please.  
Do it soon, before they take me into the forest to carve out my heart.

Public Relations

You fuck me until I cry.  You tell me you like it when I'm scared; tell me that you like the tears.
My lamp is too far away, I think, to reach and bash you across the head.  Even if it was closer, you're keeping my arms pinned behind me. 
And yet, I'm afraid of hurting you.  You're driving yourself deeper into me, grunting with each thrust; I wince and I'm equally scared that if I fight back you'll snap me by accident or I'll scratch you and draw blood.
I love you.  This is a mantra, repeated countlessly as I tense my body away from yours.  I love you.  I love you.  I love you.
You tell me I like this, tell me I'm a whore.  Maybe later I will agree, but right now I am broken and you are keeping my wings clipped.
Tomorrow I will apologize for sending you into this rage.  I will grovel, trying to work out what I did that was wrong enough to make you treat me this way.
Then, I will put on heels and a sundress and affix myself to your arm.  To the outside world I am just what I seem; simpering southern lady, lovely senators wife.
Tonight it's grunting and slapping and pulling my hair.  Tonight is terror and sweat and salty tears.
Someday soon, you will pull my neck until it snaps.  A part of me can't wait.

Emily with the dresses

Once upon a time, if you asked me what the one piece of clothing in the world I wanted to own, I would have hemmed and hawed.  Perhaps a wide petticoated dress, blue silk; it's wearer having declared a blase "So let them eat cake."  I would love the beautiful silk with ivroy button details, but the darker side of me would almost prefer the simple black frock with frayed lace around the neck that has a dried brown place around the neck.

Or perhaps I would have preferred something a little more modern.  Falling to the knees with a fringe, the scarlet is now faded but the strings of beads still have a tiny bit of luster left in them.  Once this was a dress of jazz and dancing and pack upon pack of cheap cigarettes.  A tag is sewn in at the collar, loopy stitches make embroidered letters, "Zelda."  The last night it was worn, Daisy was born. 

Then there is one of my favorites, a white expanse of light cotton with a trim green ribbon for a belt.  The skirt is so wide that no one can approach within a foot and a half of the wearer.  There is a straw had with matching ribbon, and perhaps a stray raven hair stuck to the hatpin.  This dress saw simpering and tears and then was locked away in a Hollywood prop closet, while the world realed from the impropriety of a gentleman who dared to state that he didn't give a damn.

Perhaps all I want is a simple black dress with an aline skirt.  It would fall just below my knees and look smashing with a pearl necklace and a morning bagel, and of course it would go with Tiffany's darling. I would wear my hair pulled up high on my head and throw parties the likes of which this small town has never seen.  In the end however, it would be me and my nameless cat and a bathtub for a couch.

I swoon over these dresses, I would give a year of my life to just touch any of them.  But today, if you asked me what I would most like to own I would answer decisively without a moment's hesitation.  There is an old red sweatshirt with embroidery down the front.  It is at least three sizes two big, I could comfortably wear it as a dress of it's own.  It smells like dreams and warm summer nights and tears; but the good kind where I know I have something amazing that I just don't know what to do with.  That is the softest most wonderful article of clothing that I could imagine, and I would trade in anything in the world to have it again.

You fucking lying piece of shit.  That is all.

I may be a crazy girl.
I may be jealous and insecure and say stupid things all the time.
But you're not alone right now.  You're NOT.
I'm having just as hard a time as it as you are. 
I'm sorry if I hurt you.  I don't want you to hurt, ever.
I'm here, I'm always here.

Three years later

And yet, I continue to let you call all the shots.  I am so sick of you, right now.  So sick of you being a complete idiot about life.  I am here, and god damn it I care about you.  I love you.  You can't even say that word anymore.  Liar.
You don't understand that it's all been done before.  You're not the first person who has decided not to associate with me in public.  You're not the first person to want to keep things "quite" for a while.  But do you remember what happened the last time I was crying about a boy who was treating me like I was worthless?  I let him have everything.  I regret that still.  I'm not going to let you have everything, I've learned my lesson. I'm taking back my heart.
There are men who keep trying to save me.  I tell them I don't need saving from you.  Soon though, soon I'm going to let one of them sweep my off my feet.  I need to be loved, not despised. 
I have done everything I can not to hurt you, but I just don't care anymore.  You clearly have no problem hurting me.
All I want, at the end of the day, is someone to do homework with, someone to curl up with on a rainy day.  Obviously this is too much to ask, from you at least.  Luckily for me, you're not the only fish in the sea.
Goodnight, my brown eyed heart-breaker.  You're exactly what everyone warned me about.