You Just Can't be Fixed

I thought she was beautiful. I always do. Her hands are clumsy, and her words are halting, but she brushes her hair out of her eyes quickly, and I think I'm in love. I'd never trust you. I wouldn't. I couldn't. You drive through the night without me. You drive on through, and I won't wave and you won't stop, running through lanes at midnight, switching seats and stealing kisses.

The wind blew fiercely that day. It stung my eyes.

Gender is nothing. It means nothing to me, and it means everything to me. It's a part of my identity, unsolvable and mysterious, so clearly defined.

Just like age, it erodes. It vanishes, or it crystallizes. It doesn't matter to me, because I could never tell who you were. But I remember the way you looked at me. Our fingertips pricked with blood, exchanging DNA. I wish I didn't feel guilty about us.
You're only someone I ever touched. (knives were scattered under our feet like snowflakes, beautiful disarray. We'd met a week ago. You said, 'I've been watching you' and I was charmed)

Things flicker. It was so cold someone lent me his jacket and it was all over patches and I talked to people and I'm so young, I felt so young; some people never grow out of it at all. They think we're the same.
They don't really recall what it is to be young.
These days, it feels like I'll never grow out of it.

At church:
I miss winter there. The space between the snowflakes. The touch of frost. The smell of pine and old churches and varnish on wood, smoothed by hundreds of praying hands. There were stained glass windows like saints and jewels embedded at their feet. It felt like home, but I was always a bastard daughter of the Church.
People loved me there.
I don't know who they were anymore.
It was the best part of being alone, the longing to be ready. I always love anticipation for easily lost moments.
Sometimes I think the buildup is all that people want. It's pure adrenaline, hopelessness braced for hope, victory.
Sometimes I think I'm deeply religious. I was born this way.

You grow out of it. It's easy, like flying, and just as anatomically impossible

They raised me. There wasn't anyone else around to do it for me. You see, everyone tells you what's wrong, and what's right.






I'll cut the truth out of you, piece by piece. You have soft bones, and I was never one to hesitate with a carving knife.

I don't think I can do you damage. I don't think- that this can damage myself. There's never enough time to think these things properly through.

If this is a letter, it is an incomplete one.
I can't ever find my own truth. There are things about myself that I don't want to accept and parts of me I want to forget.
These things slip away from me.
I love you. I do. But you cut me up and it's not right, just not right. I don't forget, and I can't forgive you for your failings. You wouldn't listen. You'll never listen.
I'm never right for you, because that means your choice was wrong.

I want you to make me right. I want someone who believes in me.
You'll never do that. I can't bear it.

You fucked me up and you can't fix me, and nobody can, and I don't want to fix myself. I want to heal and gather the broken pieces, around me and perfect like healing. I think I'm not so fine, but I'm not imperfect either.
Sure, I have pent up anger.
I'm so angry with you. You're always so angry with me. You always told me it was my fault. You told me that all of it was my fault. I was born with it, I couldn't escape it. It wouldn't have happened without me, it wouldn't have happened if it weren't for me. I did it to myself, to all of us.
Just shut up and take it.
You didn't walk away from him. He left you.
That's not a good enough reason. That's not enough. I hate that you did this to me. I hate that you don't care enough about me to help me, and I dislike-
that you can't even help yourself.
They just keep doing this to me and you just keep letting them. You just keep repeating old patterns. The only difference is you won't let them get close enough to start again.

You don't know what it feels like. (Sometimes I wonder if you do.)You don't know what it is when you say, 'You only said no once.'
I only said no once, that one time.
You don't understand why I'm so angry, that one time.
Should I just keep saying no? Is there such a big difference between once and a million, between just one time and onward?
Why do I have to keep saying it to be heard? Why do you keep defending them? I wonder why you won't defend me.
It's probably because I'm not enough for anybody, even myself.
You're never on my side. You're never there for me when I need you. I've only got myself, and it's a lovely familiarity.
It's not enough to say, stop, no.
Get out.
Stop.
No.

I never said no in the beginning. Maybe I did.
It was such a long time ago.