Catch on fire

Coming home to a place that’s undisturbed by another person’s living is a feeling I cannot possibly put into words. Everything where I left it. My smell. My pictures. My life, still somewhat shoved into boxes, studiously ignored. Clothes still in garbage bags, living out of my dryer. Quick, tasteless dinners.

Read a part in my LJ where I wrote an entry celebrating the first 365 days we spent together. I read it with eyes that had seen the beginning come and go until it melted into the middle, and even more slowly into the end. Sat on my porch and watched the rain fall for three hours. Made soup. Watched Grey’s. Took a Xanax, chased it with Armour. Read two books. Took four baths. Wondered. Back when I was younger, I used to hate myself for the way I’d handle a breakup. Pray to go numb. Fucking detested how my heart did not want to harden, how it flew in the face of cold, hard logic, how it didn’t seem to understand that the love was gone, and that bleeding enough for both of us wasn’t enough to fix whatever had gone wrong. I never wanted to believe that the strength of my heartache was all that remained of us, the last shred of proof that anything had ever happened. Forgetting that heartache felt like betrayal. Now I’m older and everything I wished for as an adolescent is coming true. I guess that’s maturity, or experience, or outside influence. Who the fuck knows; it sucks no matter what. I guess no matter how you feel about it, or want to feel about it, it’s always in direct opposition to how you should feel about it. Rae