I don’t know what made him put the ring on my finger… but he did. It doesn’t mean anything, he said. An apology. Just to show he cares. To show he’s there. I can keep it if I want, he says. Even if I never speak to him ever again. He’d understand.
I’m a people person, he said last night as I explained that, for the most part, I don’t like anyone. “People are people,” he went on to explain and usually, when people speak nice, I take it as pure bullshit, but I’ve had too much company-time (as opposed to alone-time) with him so I have every reason to substitute each of his words with one: Truth. “He told me I’m his friend,” he continued.
You can’t stick by someone who doesn’t want to stick by you. You can try all you want but if the other magnet is pulling in the opposite direction, you’re shit outta luck. Sometimes you’ve got to give in and allow yourself.I pity the self-inhibited; those who are held back by their own minds. Concerned with the wrong things. When’s the last time you were yourself? When you decided what you really liked as opposed to what would be considered “right”.
Fuck right. Fuck wrong, too. I’m going back to my roots. Back to who I used to be & chuck a lucid bird at the world & “do me”. Fuck that.
I set myself up for disapproval. He told me I shouldn’t have said anything. I shouldn’t have told anyone. “The thing that ruins relationships the most is other people,” he said. Am I supposed to ignore that fact that he told the story, too? Should I disregard the timid look on the look on the face of his “best friend” as we crossed paths after she had heard. The first day we spoke, we had a woman-to-woman conversation about how if a man put his hands on me, I’d try –with little hesitation– to kill him. I saw the doubt in her eyes when I said it. 5’2. 120lbs. What could I really do? But when she saw the scar on his chest and hear the story of the accompany blade, I’m sure she praised her God for my hesitation.
Today, I think…
I don’t regret anything I’ve done. I’m alive and well. I still constantly think about who people must think I am and of the invisible dunce cap I seem to don upon my head. They take me for a fool. I will admit I’m addicted to love. I have a very bad habit of being perfect and convincing others of the same. It takes me a month –at most– to get those three words to slip from his mouth. And whether he believes it or not a month from then, he’ll have believed it when he said it.
I’m not perfect, and that’s exactly why I am. I get offended when man try to call me crazy because I am not crazy. I used to be. Now, I am full-out insane. I used to be a yeller. The call you a million times and call you every name the last girl and the next, combined, couldn’t spit out. And fluidly. Now, I just let them die off.
I’ve lost all sympathy. I used to convince myself to be nice to the men who attempted to court me. To look past their flaws. To forgive them their mistakes. But then, I realized I am not God. And while I can forgive, I cannot let them into heaven. So I bar the gates and fortify the walls. There is no re-entrance to my heart. There is only one strike here.
You have no idea what your neighbor is going through. People ask why I moved to Brooklyn (if they don’t speculate) but the real answer is because I played my cards far too well. You think you want a man sitting at your doorstep until he’s there. You think you want him to love you more than life itself, until he loves you more than he loves your life. And granted, I’ve always wanted a pitbull, but what I really needed was a weapon that won’t hesitate.
All dogs can be trained to kill using one thing: love. It is infectious and deadly. Use it wisely.