The Blame's On Me

He was interested, and that's why I let him hold me.

Yesterday I spent most of the day running away from lunch tables and leaving fingerprints everywhere.  She told me to smile.  I told her I was.  She told me to smile harder.  

Well, I guess this is it.  This is where we forget the color of each other's eyes.  This is where you stop clinging to my elbow, and telling me that the woman across from us looks just like that girl from Saved By The Bell.  This is where I throw away that one sock you spilled grape juice on.  This is where you and I become you.  And I.

Now, we're those two people that occasionally like each other's Facebook statuses.

And I want to know why he keeps putting his arm around me, like I'm his childhood stuffed in a dress.  Why does he tell me his secrets and his strengths, like I'm not counting down the steps until we reach my front porch.  Like the curls on my head are bouncing just for him.

I want to know why you've left me with nothing but a violin and an empty jar.  I want to know how you could look me in the eyes and forgive me for being rash, forgive me for letting you down, and then tell me that five states is not enough space.

I'll give you five states, in fact, I'll give you the globe.  I'll give you as much as it takes to stop seeing that girl from Saved By The Bell on street corners and in coffee shops.  To stop seeing my own miserable migraine induced delusions plastered across the sides of all the buses in New York City.  I'm tired of that sound my bed makes when it feels the weight of just me.  

It's just me.

And I know I shouldn't still believe in plus signs and ampersands.  And I shouldn't wait around for the train to arrive.  

But your reasons for taking my picture down are all too familiar.

So that's my cue to leave.