Another one. Another lonely girl, another lonely night. A night fueled by absent lies, bitter drinks, and impermissible moral principles.
How many is that now? Such a conjecture is not one I dare to cloud my disarrayed mind.
I can’t take it. Hypocrisy thy name truly is thyself. But dare I risk sounding cliché?
Such is too late.
I preach. I preach to my socially ascending siblings. I preach to my depraved friends. I even risk preaching to those who truly know me best. Those of which who have stood by me since the beginning. Those who have never questioned my motives, but merely given me insight toward an outside perspective.
I preach to you.
My readers are all that I have, and what is it that I have given you in return? I certainly have not made you more intelligent. I haven’t given you anything you can sell for profit. All that I have given you is a metaphor for a life that is beyond control. One withstanding conformity and humility.
Far be it for me to practice that of which I preach on a daily basis.
Not I. Not the one seeking sexual annexation, nor the one wiping each tear away as his best friend kisses his girlfriend goodnight.
It couldn’t be… me.
I roll my cheek onto her forehead. She’s staring at me.
She stares at me as the other breathes deeply into my chest. Her eyes gaze gently down upon me; she is mocking me. Her glazen blue eyes, soft mysterious lips, and her Gibson acoustic guitar bolstered on her nurturing bosom. She is everything I want, and nothing I can have.
Colbie Caillat is a metaphor for the life that I want and the woman I’d give anything for. She once said that her song, Bubbly, wasn’t written about her crush but rather her dream guy. She is my dream, and I keep waking up.
“Why do you do that?” whispered a voice, emanating from what seemed to be right within my own ear.
“Do what?” I asked, jarring out of my daze.
“Why do you detach yourself? You detach yourself from these girls who have deeply fallen for you, from your friends who would do anything for you. Trey, I’ve seen you detach yourself from your own family.”
I didn’t know how to answer that.
I’ve been asked this before, but only through Internet commentary. Never have I had these words directed toward me in such an abrasive manner. Surely this is just playful banter.
“I… I don’t know” were the only three words I could stutter.
She sighed, adjusting her head onto my chest as she closed her eyes. I could feel the warmth of her exhale running serenely down my ribs, diffusing itself across my stomach, as if a slow stream wallowing down a hillside into a mellow pond.
It’s true.
My eyes are transfixed to the sharp ridges of the ceiling above me.
What am I hiding from? Why is it that every time someone tries to get close to me, I unceremoniously show them the proverbial door? I’m certainly not afraid of being hurt. I’ve been there and back ten times over. My heart may be callused, but far from the cause.
What’s the differential diagnosis? Quick.
Perhaps you’re afraid of letting such a catch down. Disappointment can be a real deal breaker these days. But no, that’s not it at all, is it Trey? You’ve known all along, you just couldn’t admit it.
No, no it’s not. You’re afraid that she’ll let you down. You’re afraid that she will disappoint you. She’ll take every single thing that the two of you worked so hard to build, the trust, the compassion, the love, and she’ll make one tiny mistake and it will all be gone.
You’ll crush her, but you don’t care. You won’t give a shit, all because you’re safe now. You’ve got yourself, you’ve got your words, and you’ve got your future. You have your future. There will be no our, there will be no we, it will just be you.
You stupid, narcissistic, son of a bitch.
“You have to go.”
“What?” she asked wearily.
“I’m sorry. You have to go.”
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Trey -AKA- The Mad Wordsmith
