I’m tired. Tired of myself. Tired of my mind. Tired of the constant swirl of voices. I’m tired of being told my way of thinking is wrong. You think I don’t know?? Oh, I know. Believe me.
I spend my hours thinking, thinking, thinking. I’m remembering, tallying up all the things he said and did. And nowadays, with the clarity that only time and thought can bring, I see he wasn’t that far off-base.
I’m remembering why I made those decisions, what chain of events and thought brought me to the place where we became me. And how selfish is that, honestly? Then I’m remembering him and his pretty words and my heart crushed over and over and over and the I love you’s and fuck you’s so entwined that looking back I’m not sure I can separate them anymore. How he said I was worth so much more than all that but when push came to shove, I really wasn’t, was I?
Oh yes, I’m thinking. And I know. I know you think I should stop thinking. But how can I? When all day I’m thinking about you and all night I’m dreaming about you and hidden behind the layers of thought and dreams are all those memories.
Memories of believing well-crafted words and the side-long glances and the glistening skin of impromptu passion. I’m tired. I want to run from myself more than any other thing. I need to start over.
Leave everything… and I do mean everything behind. Change my name. Lose the phone. Shut this all down. End it all. What do you think about that? Still think your heart would seek out and find mine again? Or would you wash your hands and be free? Good riddance from the never-ending heartache of compulsive thought and moodiness.
You know me. I’m always gonna be real. I’m not ever going to be one of those make-up wearing, eyelash-curling, trendy-dressing, high-pitched giggling, threesome cock-sucking fake Barbies. I’ll keep walking barefoot in the snow and not brushing my hair for days and cooking meals for strangers, failing as a parent and a would-be lover and poet, forgetting to eat some days, so consumed am I with thought and memories and possible futures. Analyzing and calculating.
It’s the ultimate selfish expression, so wrapped in my own head I can’t reach out a hand to others. I’m fucking tired. How you say I’m wrong in my thinking, my so-called logic, my hesitancy and fear, my passion burns deep for you, yeah? but perhaps if I’m so fucking wrong all the time, maybe you should. Yeah. Maybe you should delete me from your contacts and turn away for good.
I’m standing here, eyes closed, face turned up, waiting for the slap. Do it. Do it fast and hard and then let me watch your retreating back through tears you don’t need to see.
tara caribou | ©2019