tweakin
Bluelighter
As far as I can see everything has come to a perfect, silent standstill. Yesterday, in the car left hand in mine, right hand clutching a cheap bitter beer. I played the role of the silent girl who was feeling too wrapped up in her own world of crushes and cuteness to realize that this wasn’t really something that was going to happen.
I stared at my brown laughing face in the rearview mirror, shocked at my own genuine white-toothed laughter. Maybe this is it, maybe this is the moment I’ve been waiting for, to finally be able to recognize that yes, this is my face in the rearview mirror.. and yes I’m beautiful. Beautiful because he’s holding my hand, beautiful because I feel happy.. beautiful because I’m laughing.. maybe not necessarily at the jokes they’re making which have faded into the background of my thoughts, but laughing at my own shock, laughing because it’s the right thing to do. laughing, maybe because I’m trying to convince myself that I should be laughing out of happiness and false hopes. Maybe if I smile, maybe if I stare at my brown happy face in the rearview mirror and admire my white teeth and crinkled nose, maybe everything will turn out the way I want it to. It doesn’t. The surreal atmosphere of that late night crammed into the Nissan with beer and cigarettes is exactly that. Surreal. Not real.
Drunken conversations among strangers and loud obnoxious music are all we have left. Dusty air conditioners used as benches, while my bottom freezes in my drunken state. It’s not what you think, he says. I didn’t mean it like that. Oh but he did. With his apathetic manner towards everything I consider the tiniest bit meaningful, I dig myself deeper into a tunnel of “fuck it..” his self mutilation stares out at me from his bare arm and I can’t help but want to reach out and grab his face… grab his face and stare him in the eyes and tell him he’s a fucking idiot. Little boy, little boy… baby baby no where near the self-confident maturity that my mind needs to relax. Can’t stand him. Don’t want him. Just want him to wish he had me.
I stared at my brown laughing face in the rearview mirror, shocked at my own genuine white-toothed laughter. Maybe this is it, maybe this is the moment I’ve been waiting for, to finally be able to recognize that yes, this is my face in the rearview mirror.. and yes I’m beautiful. Beautiful because he’s holding my hand, beautiful because I feel happy.. beautiful because I’m laughing.. maybe not necessarily at the jokes they’re making which have faded into the background of my thoughts, but laughing at my own shock, laughing because it’s the right thing to do. laughing, maybe because I’m trying to convince myself that I should be laughing out of happiness and false hopes. Maybe if I smile, maybe if I stare at my brown happy face in the rearview mirror and admire my white teeth and crinkled nose, maybe everything will turn out the way I want it to. It doesn’t. The surreal atmosphere of that late night crammed into the Nissan with beer and cigarettes is exactly that. Surreal. Not real.
Drunken conversations among strangers and loud obnoxious music are all we have left. Dusty air conditioners used as benches, while my bottom freezes in my drunken state. It’s not what you think, he says. I didn’t mean it like that. Oh but he did. With his apathetic manner towards everything I consider the tiniest bit meaningful, I dig myself deeper into a tunnel of “fuck it..” his self mutilation stares out at me from his bare arm and I can’t help but want to reach out and grab his face… grab his face and stare him in the eyes and tell him he’s a fucking idiot. Little boy, little boy… baby baby no where near the self-confident maturity that my mind needs to relax. Can’t stand him. Don’t want him. Just want him to wish he had me.
