lever

I am huddled up in my sheets and I haven’t turned the lights on since 4. I’ve set up the whole mood to begin writing something.

For the past three days this week, every day I frantically wake up at odd hours; sometimes at 3am, sometimes at 6.30am, sometimes at 2 in the noon with an intense lever pulling at me.

“If I don’t write this exact thought I’m thinking, right now it’ll die”

But my laptop doesn’t start, my phone hangs, it’s usually too dark or i’m too lazy to pull a pen out in an old fashioned manner and scrawl. My thoughts run too quick and my hands never catch up, it’s a curse and not once have I been able to complete my whole idea. They never exist on paper, only inside me.

But then maybe an hour or so later, I’ll be typing away and anybody can guess: the thought is tainted now, too many spikes of unwanted interjecting rods have poked into it’s skin, and now it’s a whole different organism. Whatever i’ve written, consequentially looks disfigured. This isn’t what I set out to write and so I’ve erased it all.

Right now though, I am able to write something. The train is running, I am on board.

Just a minute ago, I saw you fleeting past. You may or may not have heard the last thing I blurted out. I’ll assume you did because you’ve always been the kind to conveniently ignore what you don’t want to talk about. Or you might not have heard, but I am not going to allow any streak for you to jump through and escape. I want to hold you by the head and whisper so you’ll listen, and it’ll only be you who’s listening.

No, but we weren’t having that kind of conversation. We weren’t even having a conversation. It’s been awhile since we really did and that’s okay. I only say it’s okay because to say otherwise is too painful.

I’m still 15 when I think about the person I like; I was 15 when I really liked a boy, a year later I really liked a girl. The point is, I’ve been going back lately. Ever since we locked ourselves up in a room for the first time, I have been going back. Places I didn’t want to go back to have been revisited and I took you with me. It was your idea in the first place right? You said, “babe, let’s go.” and we left. All those trips have me exhausted, sometimes I gasp for breath because we travel at this unimaginable speed, and sometimes we’re walking so slow. You have me thinking at all these instances: Why do I do the things I do?

I’m still 15 when I think of you. Maybe a few weeks back, writing this would have been easier because I would’ve been crying. It’s typical of me to cry, or to tell you I love you, or to constantly remind you how there’s been a case of swelling. Where? in my chest, and it’s beautiful; because all of this is what 15 year old me thought of the world. You see what I mean when I say I’m 15 with you? I am young, and fragile and you’re crushing me.

None of this has to happen though. All I need to do is believe that the things I hear are true; if you and I are talking, I have to chose to believe you. It doesn’t need to be true. It can be true today and not tomorrow but to not believe is too much for 15 year old me. For me.

But listen to me, I don’t want to believe. It’s easier not to, because that would align better. We’d be in sync if the things you said were untrue.

Walking around constantly like a heavy, brimming barrel of water would make sense. A slight tap on the side will break me open and spill all of me.

I wasn't meant to carry so much weight -I am fifteen- and maybe I pretend like this barrel is older than it is, but it’s not. I break when filled and you consume me. None of this will makes sense if I believed you. If you were right, if the things you said were true, I’d be light. You can tap me, you can roll me down hills but I’d still be intact. I’d never break.

But look at me, I’m breaking. You’ve broke me.