.
Somehow
.
Somehow, I continue to elude the boy. Somehow.
I can remember the blonde girl holding my hand and whispering excitedly, "he is the one; he really is, I swear it!" and blood seemed to drip from her faster than my shaking fingers could wipe it off.
And then he came up to us w/ those eyes: those deer eyes, the eyes full of tears, but the tears seem to be in limbo, like they're unsure of whether or not to stream down the face or cause a headache by straddling your cornea. Almost blurting out, he admits: "I tried to kill myself a week before I started seeing you," and all I could think was "ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod," and ask "what method did you use?" (a knife) and then reach over in a consoling, soothing voice, saying, "I'm glad you told me this; I hope you know you can always tell me things like this; don't ever be afraid."
Slithering her way through the thicket, the blonde hung about, just waiting to see what else would unfold.
I can remember bits and pieces of conversation: him saying, "and that's why I love you," and I held him tighter, an echo, "I love you so much."
As soon as I walked in the door I bawled. Why, oh why does God try to steal our beautiful boys? Why should such brilliance feeling like a knife's blade be the only way to escape internal bloodshed?
And the blonde, still there, fingered my necklaces w/ freshly painted fingernails, ruining the polish- ruining everything.
"Get rid of him, get rid of him," she yells at me frantically, trying to pull the covers over her head. "He's learning too much. Too much about us."
"So what," I snarl, "let's let someone know us for once; feel our flesh, really get
inside." I snatch the blanket back.
She rolls her eyes w/ a vigor I've never seen. "Hmph, well, you'll be sorry," she
says, then steals back my covers.
.
Still, I continue to elude the boy.
.
.
Later, a paralysis enraptures me, carrying my body to places hotels could never show me, or his smiles (so undivided and rare) could replace. The blonde is on vacation, as usual.
He: he stands there, ever so slightly resembling "the spearbearer" or Michaelangelo's "David," and, naturally, how can I give up marble when all I'm used to are cigarette butts in the backseat of some fluid-soaked car? Gravitating towards perfection as been my goal, not usually a reality.
"You're not mad at me, are you?" the voice splatters onto the concrete, the face: reflecting that sad look I’ve only seen once before: the time he thought I went down on the lead actor.
And those uncertain tears come back- still unsure of their final destination.
The blonde smirks in the background. "Let him have it! Stab it! Take it! Leave
it!"
Seething, I look out from under the corner of space I’m allowed to see through when pressed against his shoulder (they are visions of dancing leaves in the wind).
I ignore his question. "Wouldn't it look eerie if the leaves were at a constant stand still? Like, they never moved?"
"Hmph. Yeah. I'd never thought about that."
"Figures," says the blonde, rolling those baby blues again.
I wonder if trees will ever be as still as plaster or mannequins, but by then he's let me go. His eyes glide up and down my body.
"Love is something we should fall off of, not into," her tongue says, cascading over his ear.
.
And knives still gleam in the moonlight. Pills breathe in his absence.
Somehow, somewhere, under a mountain of covers, I still manage to elude the boy.
.
.