Diary of a man cranked. 2006-04-10 10:30 p.m.


No matter how well you know someone... there is always a secret they keep.

"With my grandmother gone, I feel I'm losing it all. I have lost the mother figure in my world. I've lost my childhood love; all in the same month. My heart swells in grief. I can't help that.

I've made promises not to burden her with my heart aching speeches, my pleas and my walks down old roads. I understand that she belongs to another man, and that he has earned his right to be her husband and love her and have what I want.

I have had my great love and I'll never have another love that great again.

Someone new in passing has been pushing the idea that this love might be infatuation for the person, and maybe some others as well as myself, who have known her, have become somewhat obessed with her. But, I have never been more sure that it's not that and it's so very far from that. My love for her is not about her; the physical her, but the emotion, the goodness and wholeness that she; the spiritual her; has brought to my life. If I could find that in another woman, I'd take it. I'm man enough now to know that that only comes once in a lifetime.

I have never put my feelings down properly. I've never been able to tell her that she is the filler for those places where I was broken as a child. Her friendship, and her calming voice, her pretty eyes have kept me up at night and put me to sleep all at the same time.

There is something surreal in knowing someone deeply, and having them know you back. Something magical in being assured that somebody in this world will understand and if she doesn't understand she won't fault you for the times you've sinned.

These last couple of days I've done nothing but think about that bond, and how I feel like it's a bigger death than the one I've just faced. That losing her, I lose that. I lose assurance and gratitude, and nobody will look at me that way again.

I've been rememebring the days and nights as kids when I'd sneak into her parents house - hot summer days and she'd be in the shower at the time. Without a word, I'd stand and watch for a moment as the suds would fall from her head down her small body to her feet, and I'd follow one bubble at a time, thinking for every one that'd fall that it was my soul on her skin; she didn't know it, and finally, I'd close the curtain, speak and pretend I never looked.

She was the first girl I could stand to watch naked and not want to fuck. Instead I wanted to wrap her up in my arms and keep her away from eyes like mine, from men like me, I wanted to keep her the sweet girl that she was for as long as I could.

I'd crawl in beside her some nights as she slept in the tiny bed she had had forever. Her feet never came close to the end so I could wrap myself around her, like a perfect C, and lay there smelling her hair and skin. I;d go there some nights when I was high and hurting because that smell, and that heart made the high and pain go away.

I recall the night we were on the couch at my house, watching a movie and she was leaning her head into my belly, my legs over her shoulders as she rubbed, as caring as she always did, the sides on my ankles, with her hands. She could feel the stiff veins and the swelling. I could feel her body tense.

"Marc, enleves tes bottes."
"Ben, respirez par le nez, hen. What's your problem?"
"You know what my problem is. Take off your SOCKS!"

I could hear life leave her voice. I could hear the sound tears make when they puddle in the bottom lid.

I could hear the soft effort to prove that she was mistaken.

"Tell me you didn't lie to me. Tell me I won't find holes in your feet if I look."

"I'm not telling you anything."

She buried her face into my belly as hard as she could without suffocating and cried. "Why do you do this to me?" When she breathed back in I could feel her take my soul with her.

"I don't do it to you. I do it to me."

"That's right. There never was me, there was always just you."

She got up and walked out my door.

In that moment, I didn't care. I didn't care that she was crying or that I had betrayed her trust or violated her love. It didn't matter then that she cared at all because my high was strong.

Later though, when it stopped, I felt empty. I felt like dying. I took off the shirt she cried on and I put it away unwashed and told myself I couldn't wear it until I needed her tears again. It was symbolic of her leaving me even though she didn't really go far that day. It was the last night I ever put a needle in my skin.

Yesterday underneath my jacket, I wore that shirt. I took it off later, went back and laid it with my grandmother in the ground. It was the closing circle of life for me. The two women I love deeply. The mother, and the best friend coming forth. I buried them both by the beach. I buried myself. I needed that moment. I still need them."

I remember that too... I remember the night, and I always knew he was there, even when my eyes were closed...

I have nothing to bury. I just have skin, and scars and a bad taste in my mouth when I say his name.

Why when he writes doesn't point fingers... but when he speaks he throws daggers my way? I'll never get it... I never want to...

I never knew that my tears meant something... if only once, I guess that's something.


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