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Remembering And Moving On
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Five Damp tobacco on the pavement reminds me of that time I ran away to North Carolina.
The name Barbara reminds me of the street he hid his car on, to come sneak me out the window and into the night, followed by a wonderfully/scarring joyride.
My apartment looks exactly the same even after I moved out of the one we used to live in and the walls are the same color as before, the texture is exactly the same as the one he threw me up against and choked me.
Wife beaters have a new meaning to me, when I threw that punch and it collided with the cotton fabric covering his skater-abs.
My class ring is jinxed from being on his pinky finger for two years straight. Who knows if I really graduated at all?
I glare at all the Camaro's in Madison, and I can't bring myself to look at the driver.
8:16 am/pm makes me cringe. He was born, I once thought, for me.
I didn't blink the whole way home from the unknown apartment I'd ended up in, the night before. I didn't blink when I told him I'd cheated, with alcohol and vodka still prominent on my breath. I didn't blink when he yelled, when he cried, when he sat and rocked himself back and forth, when he threw things, when he paced the floor, when he threw my class ring at my head, packed up all of his things, and left.
I closed my eyes and let our two years flash by, sat and cried for three weeks, straight.
I made all the mistakes.
My heart broke for me, but more for him.
Be all you can be.
He went and joined the Army.
