A selfie with a bruised banana phone. I didn’t know what other picture would be most appropriate for this post.
It’s comforting to read certain articles, albeit ones that mildly trigger. In 500 words, I write about memories. My naivety and his complications. Our complications. Anyway, give Lauren’s blog a read. The link and a preview can be found below.
“You are a sponge. A penetrable, earnest, quick little learner with so much potential.”
I didn’t think this was creepy. I didn’t think a lot of things were creepy for the four years and four or so months that I said “yes” to codependency. You ask me why I put up with the shit, and I’ll tell you, “I can’t read men.” Or that this was a better alternative than summers at a certain place. Regrettably, I’ve told myself, “No one will be the same.” Well, no shit. No one is exactly the same.
I’m falling for you.
It makes me sad.
Why am I sad? Because of the distance. Because of our age. They see you as a naive little girl, and myself as an immature boy. But we have something they don’t have.
Who the hell is “they”?
I’m the survivor, and you’re the thriver. You’re just like me, but four years behind.
And three months after we unpacked our boxes and fought over how to screw on the legs of our sad IKEA knockoff, I wasn’t like you. I was stupid. You laughed as I read about human rights and told me your biochemistry degree had more respectability than conversational Mandarin could ever hold. You reminded acquaintances at hookah bars that you could’ve gone to graduate school in Germany. But you didn’t, grading papers when you said it wasn’t expected.
I helped you grade those quizzes. You told me I had to. My income wasn’t exactly yours, so I had to earn my keep.
Before this, you lived with your parents. They didn’t charge you rent, and you spoke of how they owed you. You were twenty-three, or twenty-four back then. I know it shouldn’t matter. Society screwed you over.
Your eyes were always open, and once I asked you why. You said you liked to watch me. The creases of my eyes. You said you found it funny when I opened them. You saw yourself in cloudy inkwells. You said you saw potential.
Eventually, I embarrassed you. The Hello Kitty water dispenser you bought me our first Christmas, thrown down the apartment stairs as you called me a worthless bitch. Brought a Bible home one day, only for you to shake your head to laugh and ask how I live with myself, live without logic, live in fantasy.
You’re so full of shit. And you think you’ll become some fantastic lawyer.
I believed you for a time. My parents thought the same. Your father would always say I’d run off and cheat. Before, this didn’t matter.
But it did when you asked that I sleep in my car as you spoke with a coworker over the phone. You encouraged friendships and thought they’d help. Eventually, you branded them heretical influences. And you had to protect yourself. I would’ve forgotten you anyway, and she was the one with a brain.
Never learned formal calculus, but I know disrespect. Also, I didn’t have to grade those fucking quizzes.