a mark on the wall.

[iLoveYouWithaKnife]

If I sat down and tried to count
all the times he was suppose
to return my calls
and never did,
I wouldn't have enough hands.
That's devistation to a 13 year-old girl.

And when I found out
that he was getting with the girl
who months later
would turn out to be
my best friend for years on end
sticking by my side,
helping me get by,
teaching me how
not to let boys/men ruin us-
I just wrote him off
as someone I would never had.

I was sitting in the bar
a couple nights before
and someone sat down
at the only available seat
which happened to be
next to me.
We exchanged smiles
and then he asked
for my name.

And as I watched his mouth
frame by frame
drop on the bar
I thought to myself
Oh fuck.
Where does this guy
happen to know me from,
and why can't I place
his fucking face.
What's yours?
I spoke.

And I couldn't fucking believe
that eleven years later
the same kid I used
to watch skateboard
is watching my lip ring
nervously hit my drink,
as he asked my for my number.

I didn't get myself
worked up this time
because people don't change-
and I'd be too fucking bored
to sit around and wait for a call,
when there's still a million bars
serving alcohol.

Six days later
I found myself on
the same bar stool
and from the corner
of my eye- I saw him walk in.
He told me he was sorry
he didn't call-
but I didn't seem interested.
Fuck guys and what they're thinking
I thought to myself.

An hour and a half after
last call he was
going to his car,
where he would drive
to his buddy's house
with me in the passenger seat.
And I wasn't going to go
but I thought he tried
to coaxed me long enough.
And in the right light
and enough drinks
I could be convinced
of just about anything.

And there was enough
white stuff
to keep us together
until 8.30 in the morning.
I haven't met a nice girl
in a while, he said.
And it was the shit
talking because
I sure as fuck don't
fall under
that catergory.

When he dropped me off
at my car he said
he'd call me tomorrow
and corrected himself-
with I mean, later on.
What the fuck ever
I thought
as I slammed the car door.

Because they either call
too much, or not at all.
They can't handle my alcohol
and it disgusts them.
Fuck it.
I don't want my machine
filled with desperate
messages anyway.

Down the highway
I thought about
what a slut
I thought he was,
all those years back.
And how if he ever called again
I'd sleep with him-
then never talk to him again.

I brushed my teeth and
fixed my hair, changed my clothes
and drove to the place
at 10.30 a.m.
where I would find myself,
head meshed into the bar
until 2.10 p.m.
And when 4 p.m. rolled around
I would convince myself
that a few drinks
would be alright.

Beers down and 3 hours later
I realized the only place
I should be was home.
But I wanted to get there
without a care
because my called ID
wouldn't be blinking.

But to my suprise
the was a cell number
I didn't recgonize
and a message left
on the machine.
Holy fuck.
Maybe time does change
some things.

And today I will
hopefully meet with him
and use my good senses
to decide if he would
be a good time
or another wasted effort
that left a mark on the wall.

 

[syd]

And in the right light
and enough drinks
I could be convinced
of just about anything.

And there was enough
white stuff
to keep us together
until 8.30 in the morning.
I haven't met a nice girl
in a while, he said.
And it was the shit
talking because
I sure as fuck don't
fall under
that catergory.

Great stuff! That about sums up my existence.