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it feels colder than it should.

Short story By: Josephine Ann
Non-fiction


I don't expect this to make a whole lot of sense.

Here's what it is- being in love with someone who's torn, somebody that's all at once beautiful and impossible. That's what it's really about.


Submitted:Nov 5, 2007    Reads: 97    Comments: 2    Likes: 3   


we stood silently; there is a calm indifference to how i approach you and the things i say. the elephant in the room steps on my toes and i let it go, i don't want to deal with this right now. if i really thought you couldn't- you wouldn't- love me, i'd have given this up a long time ago, but i am unfortunately a dreamer and unfortunately not a realist. and it almost makes me angry, it almost makes me hit the punching bag harder than i usually do, but i attribute it to the music pounding through my veins and jumpstarting my heart to some sort of action, some result of the momentum that comes with liquid fire.

the apology comes from me and bounces off of you like something you hadn't even considered, like bodies pressed together for warmth or whatever other bullshit reason we've come up with is insignificant. it occurs to me that you are either blind or in denial and the chances are split straight down the middle. so the minutes on my phone bill climb up and i have to keep emptying the text inbox on my phone because there are so many messages, but still the air of 'this is nothing' hangs between us. i finally give myself the right to be angry with you, because now i really believe you know what's happening and you're just screwing around. you're just buying time while you stay with someone who doesn't love you and treats you like shit, and i have nothing to say about that. 'it's not my place' has become a part of my major vocabulary, and i use it as my excuse for why i won't speak up and put myself out there.

and i ask the question to your best friend, and he can't answer me. am i the surrogate girlfriend? am i only of use when she's not around? i put myself in this position, but you haven't helped. i imagine things would be different if you knew exactly how i felt, but i keep telling myself that's not the point and i keep telling myself that you should know well enough. but you don't and i'm not inclined to tell you. so i ramble and say things that don't make one damn bit of sense and you wait tables at work while i throw punches and wish you were here to see. maybe the anger would make you think. maybe the rawness would clue you in.

maybe you'd start to understand.




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