mollyburton

Journal from the convoluted perspective of a confused teenaged boy. Names and ages are irrelevant.

Self respect.

Her face was plain; the kind of face that you wouldn't notice in a crowd, the kind you wouldn't recall even if you'd been introduced. Not worth remembering. Once you've had enough to drink looking at stranger is like looking through a dirty window and the face is as blurred and unfamiliar as any other. You could tell that she didn't have much experience with men from the way she held herself. Even when the only source of light was moonbeams filtering in through the gap in the curtain, kissing the contours of her body, she had an arm draped over her stomach. Like she was trying to hide a part of her.

She would have done better to cross it over her face. That is the kind of thought that makes me hate myself.

No, it wasn't her face. It was something about her body that made her beautiful. Like it was so unimaginably stained with innocence all of the colour had been bleached out of her skin, leaving her pale and perfect like a marble statue that someone had sculpted with passion. Her hair fell around her modest face in sultry waves, framing it with a dark ocean that was seemingly endless. It made me sick to my stomach with regret, looking at the harsh clashing of the beauty and the ordinary that met beneath her chin. She felt incomplete. As if a careful artist had gotten bored of pouring over the same canvas everyday and had rushed through the details of her face.

I could nearly see the quickened beat of her heart through the flimsy cage of her ribs. Her chest rose and fell softly, as if she were sleeping. I knew she wasn't but I couldn't move a ****ing inch. I could see the way her eyes were flitting about beneath her near transulscent eyelids. I tried to convince myself she was dreaming, but I knew she was waiting for me to move. Waiting for something exciting to happen. Waiting for the kind of story she would get alot of attention for among her girlfriends Monday at school; the kind that would give her short lived confidence. Waiting for anything, maybe.

There was something infantile about her. The nearly unnoticeable layer of baby fat still clinging to the bones that were too visible beneath her pale flesh. She looked so vulnerable and so fragile, like a porcelain doll that ought to be kept on the top shelf. Her eyelashes were dark against her ghostly skin, and I remember wondering briefly what it must be like for her to feel them flutter against her cheek ever time she blinked. It would have been so easy to lift a hand, it didn't even matter where it fell. The simple breach of seemingly eternal space between us would have been enough. Any physical contact I initiated would have been like code, spoken in a foreign language-- one I was not fluent in. It would have been interpreted as an invitation (one that I didn't want to give) and a request (one that I didn't want to make). I could have woven a moment neither of us would ever forget. I had the power to make her memorable. But I didn't want to be there every time she was with anyone. I didn't want to be the person she thought of everytime she fucked anyone else, and I didn't want her bland face or that body, the one that could inspire museless poets, burnt on the backs of my eyelids every time I closed my eyes to dream.

__________________
--carpe omnia.

mollyburton

Another lifetime.

They are the kind of thoughts that get tangled in an impossible knot and take a lifetime to sort out. The kind of thoughts that only allow for glimpses into the memories you ache and crave to replay in your head. I've written a hundred mindless poems for him, and I've written a thousand letters that will never be sent. It's like an old reel of film that I've played back so many times it's become faded from use. I'm losing my hold on the things that feed my sick addiction to the past. Remembering him is like a drug that I can't ever get enough of. I would overdose on memories of him.

I could describe how I feel with infinite words and never convey the intricacies of it all. No matter what words I use, they are never enough. No matter what memories I have, they are never enough. I am the only one in my head and the only one in my heart, and it gets so fucking lonely in here. It was obvious, to me atleast, that I had no idea what I was getting into. I was moving at the speed of sound into completely foreign territory. It was like fumbling for something familiar in the pitch black.

He's left behind a million shards of himself and they landed everywhere he's ever been. My own lips are are a part of the collection of things he left behind to taunt me with memories of what I can never have. No matter how many people I kiss, he is all I can taste. I remember the smallest, most unsatisfying details. The memorandums that leave me thirsty like a man in a desert, dehydrated and baking in the sun; I need to drink him in. As time passes and my mind becomes clouded from drinking, and forgetting I cannot help but feel guilty for the memories that I selfishly harbour in my mind. The things that I cannot forget as I have forgotten the rest of him.

The way he smelled of laundry detergent and freshly cut wood. An awkward combination of scents that I found unimaginably intoxicating, like they'd been premeditated to keep me hooked. The way his shirt fell between his shoulderblades, stretched taunt across the bones and hanging loosely in the curve of his spine, like a bridge from one blade to the next. I'll never be able to figure out how he always managed laugh when I knew he was enduring a long lasting pain that wouldn't fade, or even more: how his laughter was real. The shadow behind his eyes that I would never understand, like they were sheltering a raging storm in their dark grey depths. He always knew how to lie, and I always knew better than to catch on.

It was like a precarious truce, the silence between us. The things we would never say, and the things we shouldn't have thought to begin with.

Before he left, we drank ourselves innocent.

__________________
--carpe omnia.

mollyburton

The end of innocence.

I remember the water.

Smooth and flat like a sheet of dark glass. Blues and greys battled for the surface creating a plane of myriad colours. The sun was low in the sky, it's beams scattering orange and pinks rippling across the ocean. It looked as if the sun were peering into a mirror, staring at it's own gloriously distorted reflection. I appreciated the most minute details, logging them away in my brain. I resent those things that I remember now, for they occupy space in my mind; space that could have been used to remember you. I remember the sound the lazy waves made as they lapped against the wet sand of the shoreline. I remember the gentle whistling the pale wind made as it passed through the stock of the seagrass. I remember the stinging smell of the ocean air, thick and salty in my nose. The buzz of traffic up the bank behind us was nothing more than an irritation, a reminder that the world was still moving no matter how much it felt like time had stopped to give us this moment.

I remember how beautiful you were.

We didn't exchange words, but our interlocked fingers were enough. A minimal gesture, the kind of thing you find in a middle school hallway, but the thought didn't stop my heart from hitching in my chest. The silence was not awkward. It hung between us comfortably, sealing us in our own world. A single moment that felt like it was bound to last forever. I had to smile at the way your eyes were nearly closed, you were squinting at the sun. It was impossible for you to look away from it's power, so you endured the burning and the blinding brightness. Your eyelashes were so pale that they looked white in the glitter of the twilight air.

I remember the wakeup call.

I could feel your thumb subconsciously traceing patterns along the edge of my own. It was a light, casual motion, and it made me feel comfortable in my own skin. A rare feeling for any teenager, but with your hand in mind I was happy to simply be myself. When that horn honked from behind us you barely noticed, but I gave a small, startled jump. We spun to look, our fingers still tangled like lovers between the sheets. The red paint of the car was caught in the last few rays of sunlight, glistening like an icy road on a sunny day. The cold air bit sharply at my palm as you dropped my hand as if you'd been scalded. I hadn't even noticed the cold creeping up on us as we stared out at the water. You met my questioning eyes as the car pulled out, offering one final, angry blare of the horn.

"My dad." And it was all you said. He must have recognized your car, parked beside the coffee shop down the dike. I didn't understand the gravity of what happened, and you didn't look at me the whole drive home. The silence that I had basked in so warmly before had turned to stone. I felt like I was facing the gates of Fort Knox, and you had suddenly become so impenetrable that I felt I didn't know the person sitting next to me.

I remember the dawning realization that this was all bigger than just you and me.

It knocked the wind from my lungs, seeing you on my doorstep that night. As if I had forgotten how amazing you were in the few short hours since you'd dropped me off. You were wearing a long sleeved shirt despite the warm summer air, but I didn't think anything of it at the time. It was a clear night, the stars winked down at me, as if they were hiding secrets that I would never know. My roommate was gone, so I wrapped my arms around you the second to door was closed. Despite your change of clothes I could smell the metallic ocean on your skin. No matter the distractingly provocative scent of your body, I felt you cringe beneath my arms. The look on your face had pain written in it's every line. It took a lifetime of persuasion, but you eventually pulled your shirt off for me to see. It made sense why you wore the long sleeved shirt that evening.

I remember being unable to heal you.

Even now I dream of what it must have been like for you. Your ribs were mottled with rancid purples and rotten yellows. I'd never asked before where the small, round scars on your arms had come from, but I knew now that you were littered with more, all angry and deep. I can't even imagine how you must have felt sitting powerlessly while your father put his cigarettes out on your body, as if you were no more than an ashtray at his disposal. I will never forgive him for scarring you more deeply than the actual injuries ran. And I will never forget the helplessness I felt; I was fucking useless. You will eternally amaze me for being able to smile with your eyes while your body was so abused.

That night wasn't the end of everything, but it was the beginning of the end. Childishly, I still blame your father.

__________________
--carpe omnia.

mollyburton

You make me hope.

I never suspected that you would be a person already. I had images of tadpoles, and eggs swimming around in my head, so you have to understand what seeing you on that dark flat screen was like for me. You amaze me already, and I haven't even met you. I've already got fears and dreams swelling inside of me. I haven't felt this much hope since back when I was loved. I feel ridiculous for being this attached to you, writing to you even.

It smelled like lemons. Crisp and santized, and all the white was burning my eyes in the waiting room. It was as if they'd accessorized it with the intention of driving me insane while I waited. I knew that you and your mom were in a room just around the corner, but I couldn't stop tapping my feet and twiddling my thumbs. The nurses were all staring at me with doe-y eyes, and your grandmother was no help at all. I couldn't tell if she did a rail before she'd come, but that's only because she is totally off her rocker all the time. You'll love her anyway, because she's family. When they let me in, the room was dark and the smell of the hospital dissapeared. The woman in the blue uniform pointed to the screen, but my eyes found you long before her finger showed the way. Your feet were so small, especially compared to your head. You better grow into that, or you'll never survive middle school, (Kids are ruthless and mean.) I'll love you even if you're born with a huge head, don't worry. They wouldn't tell us if you were a boy or a girl, but I have a feeling that you're a boy.

Before, when I reffered to you fondly as Fetus I still hadn't grasped the fact that you were human. I never in a million years expected you to look so much like a baby already, and I couldn't stop smiling for hours. Your heart was so small, but it was so perfect. I could see it beating in your chest, and I was transfixed; amazed that someone so small could be alive, and could already have so many people in love with them. I wonder if your heartbeat is in time with your mother's.

The hospital wasn't as bright when I left the room as it had been when I'd entered. I found the sharp whites less prickling on my eyes, and the fervent, mushy stares of the nurses to be less irritating. I even chatted idly with your grandmother, a feat that I rarely attempt. I was too full of a hundred different emotions to try and ignore her mindless banter. I held your mom's hand when we left, and I know that everyone was watching us through the corners of their eyes and making harsh judgements. They don't know anything at all. I talked to you the whole way back to your mom's house. I hope you remember my voice, once you're out here in the world with us. I dropped your mother off at your grandmother's house, and I was worried for you. I know she smokes inside, and I don't want you to get hurt. I'm already worrying about peer pressure, and the decisions you might someday make. I feel like i'm in way over my head, and I'm not even the one carrying you inside me. You probably think I'm silly.

This morning when we woke up, I remembered to tell you I loved you. Your mom had makeup smudged halfway down her face, and she looked like a raccoon, but I didn't care at all. You won't ever know how stunning she looks while she's pregnant with you, but take my word for it: she is beautiful. It was such a warm feeling, waking up next to someone and not wishing I was alone. You and I had our first sleepover last night, and I was amazingly comfortable. I wonder if this is what a family feels like. I can hardly wait for your first night on planet Earth.

I have all of these hopes already, that I'm afraid I'll drown once you're born. I hope you are healthy, and I hope you are happy. I want you to love yourself, and I want others to love you. I want you to be intelligent and charismatic. I want you to be the most handsome one at your Highschool Graduation, and the most honoured at University. I want you to have friends that you can trust, and dreams that you will reach. Does it make me greedy to want you to have everything?

Mostly, I hope your father loves you like I do.

__________________
--carpe omnia.

mollyburton

These words will not be eloquent. They will not be pretty, because you have started a war. It's my heart against my mind and the battle is long and brutal. The things I know verus the things I feel, and my sanity is the battlefield. You've turned me against myself, and torn me into the smallest pieces, so that I cannot even form my own thoughts. I feel violated, because you have more power over me that I do. How is it possible for you to change my entire world with so few words, and even less body movement? I can't even decide if I'm euphoric, or suicidal.

<b>Fuck you.</b>

You make me blind, deaf and dumb. I am powerless, and pathetic in your presence. My thoughts blow out of my mind like smoke in the wind. I lose sight of myself, and everything around me. The millions of things I want to say; I need to say get caught in my throat. I feel suffocated, like everything I feel is choking me. You are impossible to hate, and impossible to love. I'm caught in this current, and you pull me under so hard that I'm sure I'm going to drown.

There is something about you that dazzles me. I feel light headed and full hreated just being that close to you. I wanted to touch you, kiss you, fuck you, tell you all of my secrets, remind you what we shared and what we lost, but despite all that I would have settled for just being near you. It was the briefest encounter, and it was like a beacon of light. It was as if i'd been living in this eternal darkness and your face was a lighting bolt that struck the earth beside me. The briefest reminder of how happy I used to be, and how I can't, even in my most nostalgic dreams, imagine being that happy ever again.

I am exhausted from replaying the car ride in my head. Over analyzing every word that was said, and ever gesture that was made. You make me feel like I'm going completely crazy. Like my entire existence is having a power-out. It would have been so fucking simple to reach across the seat and take your hand. To pull the car over and have the kind of conversation I dreamed that we would have ever since you left.

I flashed my highbeams at you, to see if you were anyone I knew. You were walking backwards down the road, your thumb out. It must have been God feeling particularily cruel that I happened to be driving by, and you happened to be freezing cold. I slammed on the brakes too hard, the woman behind me leaned on her horn for too long before swerving around me. You recognized me the second I broke driving ettiquette. I pulled over, almost positive I was going to pass out (I'd forgot to breathe). I was internally panicking as you walked towards the car. I didn't understand how you could look so fucking casual. I was every single possible emotion as you pulled my door open and got it. Of course, the second I caught your smell everything I'd wanted to say went out the window like a cup of stale coffee.

I am such a coward, and I hated myself, sitting there and making small talk with you when everything in me was screaming to ask Why? Why did you leave? Why can't I be enough? Why did we fail? Why her? Why are you trying to destroy me?

If there is one thing I hate the most it's the fact that you've reduced me to inarticulation. You are the only one who can make every single word I write burn on the way out. You are the only one who makes me feel like writing is the worst possible choice I can make, and you are the ONLY one that pushed me towards bottling it all up and refusing to record any one of the infinite feelings I've got running through me right now. Why do my literary abilities vanish when you are my topic?

This falls on deaf ears but, you've broken me to pieces.

__________________
--carpe omnia.