so brooke, the girl i can't stop talking about lately.... well, i honestly am starting to think that she might... just might... be straight.... i so don't want that to be the truth... but god damn, she doesn't even seem to be open to reevaluating her sexuality... 18, never been with anyone, never been kissed, etc etc etc. no fashion sense, BMX, skateboards, races fucking cars but claims straightness... so frustrating... she has told me on more than one occasion she has no interest in having sex with anyone... WHAT? maybe my best friend and i both have really ridiculously high hormone levels but we both found that really odd... what kinda 18 year old has no interest in sex.... oh that's right... one that's thinking about sex with the wrong gender in mind... dear lord... what is her deal?
in other news, the girl i was sorta kinda with last summer who ended up ditching me and claiming straightness (what the hell is up with me and straight girls... i need to stay away).... anyway, her graduation is on monday night and during it i think i'm going to go up to her house and leave a final note thanking her for everything she did for me... maybe leave her some flowers, give her back all her CD's, books, etc. that i still have of hers.... i need to have some kinda closure... i think it will do me some good... it's been six months since i've seen her, nine since she stoped talking to me but i've been having a really hard time with it the last couple weeks... not gonna lie... i dunno just missing her more than usual i guess...
in other news with brooke... i had to write my final paper for my creative writing class and we had to write "about something that dealt with a lot of emotion"... because the topic is so fresh, i had a hard time writing it and frankly, it turned out like shit... but i thought i would share because it really describes things well... even though it might not be as eloquent as i would want
“I HOPE YOU WILL BE HEARD”
The lower walls are painted red with thin black borders. A guitar sits in the corner, amplifiers on the floor. A skateboard, obviously outgrown, sits in the same corner. The floor creaks as I walk across the room. I take a seat on the black futon that occupies the left side of the room and stare at the nondescript ceiling above me. The room is bare, with a feeling of androgyny. Behind me, bass turned up, blares a pair of speakers proclaiming lyrics that echo my own thoughts….
“If I could I would shrink myself, sink through your skin to your blood cells….. remove whatever makes you hurt, but I am too weak to be your cure”.
I look to the other side of the room. Pictures of us sit atop a brown shelf. A closet takes up the other corner of the room. It’s shut – always shut.
I stare back up at the ceiling. A single solitary tear runs from my eye as I continue to listen to the lyrics:
“I’ve got some problems but we’ve got ten dollars, that’s enough to get us wasted before the night is over. These past five days I’ve been completely sober but tonight I’m getting ripped wide open.”
The lack of decoration in the room makes me almost uneasy. The carpet is obsessively spotless. Any reminisce of dust, of imperfection, is absent. The lyrics continue to resonate with me, all seemingly about her:
“Would you want to see if seeing meant you had to believe?”
I prop myself up on my elbows as she enters the room. She stands at the doorway, apprehensive. She looks surprised to see me, almost shocked that I would follow through on a promise and show up when she asked me to. A smile breaks across her face. The smile that I kill for. She stands in the doorway a second longer… long enough for me to run my eyes over her body. Over the blemished face that makes her so imperfectly beautiful. Her hair is pulled into a low ponytail as usual, making her bad dye job even more apparent. I look over her hands and that ring. Up over the right arm, crease (strange mark fading now.) She wears the same simple blue t-shirt that she often does. I look down to her legs, jeans hanging off her ass. I stop at her feet, bright pink toe nails catching me off guard. The color is out of place, just like her at times. Out of place where so many things reek of conformity.
She walks over to that closet and promptly opens the door. Inside, everything is obsessively labeled and organized just like the rest of the room. The contents though are awkward, completely at odds with the rest of the room. The brightly colored shirts with labels of Abercrombie and Hollister off set her usual Zumiez’s attire. It appears that a completely different life, a different girl lives behind these doors. She picks a CD from the left side of the closet and quickly turns around, closing the right side door that seems to contain this femininity and vulnerability that seems so frightening, almost embarrassing to her.
Slightly confused, I turn to her, watching her walk across the room. She changes the CD, a familiar song coming from the speakers now. I scoot over on the futon as she sits next to me, almost too close. My instincts beg for her to move closer. My conscious actually causes me to back away. To break the awkwardness we bullshit. For the first time, we act like nothing is going on when I know there is. I’m exhausted, too exhausted to sit and extract the pain from her.
Seemingly frustrated that I want her to do the talking tonight, she gets up, leaving the room. I stretch out on the futon, looking back at that closet. The name of a local band on one of the CD labels causes me to get up and go over to the closet. I take down some of the CD’s, looking at the different bands and song names.
Five minutes later, she still hasn’t come back into the room. I turn around, frustrated but ready to leave. Already heading across the room to grab my keys, something catches my eye. I look down to the edge of the closet, the metal prong on the bottom of the closet colliding with the outside light to create a blinding glare. The metal is thick, intimidating to the most seasoned of her kind. I look closer, almost shuddering. All the episodes I’ve heard about, all the stories come rushing back to my consciousness.
I sink to the floor, noticing that I’ve never felt so exhausted in my life. I rest my head against the back of the other closet door. I’m angry, rather confused. The light hits the metal again at just the right angle, demanding that I pay attention to it again. I put my foot against it, trying to bend it. I make no impact. No impact on the metal, no impact on her pain.
My tears aren’t hysterical but they do come easy. They are barely noticeable, just like her scream. Just like that constant scream, barely above a whisper.
I sit, for how long I don’t know, wondering how it ever got to this point. How did these screams for help seem to fall on deaf ears? Where were parents, friends, teachers mentors?
However later, she returns. I get up, still crying, tears burning now, and walk over to her. She’s barely entered the room and I hug her. I hold on tight, soaking in her smell, soaking in her touch. The hug I receive back is one of desperation, of longing. As we finally separate, looking into her eyes I proclaim the truth:
“I love you”, I say with a firmness and sureness that surprises even me.
She looks back at me, unsure of what the proper response is.
“No one has ever told me that”.
I pull her back into me, holding her even tighter this time.
We stand there, as the words on the stereo only continue to reflect the situation and the overwhelming pain.
“There’s a fire in your eyes, and I hope you let it burn. There’s a scream in your voice and I hope you will be heard.”