Welcome To The Collection

Somewhere other than here I am a magic. I can feel the pulsing energy of the world on my fingertips and I draw shapes in the air and watch as plants grow faster and fire dances on the palms of my hands. I travel the world, collecting interesting artifacts and even more interesting stories. Maybe once I’m old and tired of adventuring, I settle and teach others the ways of magic and watch as young people light up at the beauty of creation at their fingertips.

Somewhere other than here I am a knight. Utterly devoted to my Majesty. I am a battle worn warrior with too much blood on their hands. I have fought wars, stopped assassins, and knelt at the feet of the one who holds my life in their hands. There is no place I’d rather be.

Somewhere other than here I have wings. Strong, feathered, powerful things that take me anywhere I wish to go. I can feel the freedom in the wind dispite its biting chill and I know, there’s nothing stopping me so long as I can fly.

I wonder what you’re doing, if you’re sleeping alright, if you miss me, I know you do (and that’s not arrogance or ego, I just can’t get the sound of your crying out of my head. I keep seeing the look on your face when I left, if I’m still thinking about it, I can’t imagine you’ve forgotten already).

I miss you, I think. I remember the good times, the staying up late at night talking about nothing—about everything—until we saw the sun come up. I miss the way you knew me, really knew me, in a way I don’t even know if I knew myself.

I miss the feeling of being in love. The joy that comes with thinking life could be this simple, this easy, that I could do anything as long as I had you…

Then I remember the rest of it. The quiet weight I felt on my shoulders. The reminders, the hidden responsibilities gently placed in my hands again and again. You didn’t do it on purpose, I didn’t even know it was happening, until the weight was crushing, the responsibilities too much, until I bent and bent and bent…

And then I broke.

Looking someone in the eyes and telling them you have to leave is awful. Because it’s just based on a feeling, something that feels so wrong but you know it’s right.

Trying to explain why we suddenly don’t work feels impossible. It isn’t because of the one fight, or because of work or something else that could change. Trying to explain that it’s simply you. At the ugliest core part, the person you’re with simply isn’t a match for you no matter how hard they try. And that’s the worst part. You have to look at them, and say without saying that there’s nothing they can do, there’s nothing they can change. It’s just them. It’s just me.

And when they cry you still want to comfort them, because that’s what you’ve always done. You’ve spent four years learning how to comfort and take away their hurt. But now you are the one hurting them. You are the problem. And when before your hands were a soft bandage, and your lips kissed a cooling balm. Everything is tinged with poison.

Sitting in a small room, cramped, trinkets and boxes crowd every surface. One box wobbles and tips over, spilling pages and pages of writing on the ground. Old poetry, diary entries, letters, notes, words asking for peace, asking for a break, asking for a little bit of attention please?

The door cracks open, a sliver of light reveals a small lump on the bed. A body, curled up under too many blankets, the weight either comforting or suffocating, they’re too still to tell. The voices outside continue as a smaller creature pads into the room. A cat, it jumps onto the bed, pawing at the covers until the a head peaks out.

“I’m sorry?” A question more than an apology—said paired with sincere confusion over another social interaction I must have misread, because someone is angry at me and I don’t know why.

“I’m sorry!” Only shouted with exasperation or frustration, you can take your pick, when I truly give up on understanding what you want. Because clearly I’m incapable of understanding what you need from me.

The other two have already gone. All that’s left is you, and me.

I stare at you as we stand in the kitchen, eyes watering. I’m desperately trying to not let them fall.

You’ve already lost that battle. The box of Kleenex in our room has been practically attached to your hip these past couple of days. I’m surprised you haven’t blown your nose off.

I look up at you. You’re only a couple inches from me yet those inches somehow hold all four years of knowing you. The distance heavy, uncrossable, that is until you lean forward and all but collapse in my arms.

My hands were already braced to catch you. I shift my weight to hold you better, bearing the brunt of your tears.

My shoulder feels wet.

I don’t know how long I hold you. Maybe just a minute, maybe thirty. It feels like eternity as I wait for you to let me go.

My phone rings. It’s my sister. She’s gotten more boxes so I can finish packing. You still don’t leave my arms. My neck hurts from leaning back so you can tuck your head under my chin.

Eventually I pull back. Because I know you never will. That was always our problem right? I just know by now that I can’t keep standing here.

You look so sad. I try to find words to comfort you, my throat closes up. I want you to leave. I don’t want you to go. I want you to hold me. I want you out of my arms. I want so many things. I only want this. I want to tell you to stay. I know we both must go.

In the end, I don’t say goodbye.

You used to tell me I was an open book. Every thought spelled out neatly, dispite my messy handwriting. I would tell you about my day, what I had for breakfast, what student really annoyed me during work, anything and everything that came to mind. I am a verbal processor after all.

You used to tell me about how transparent I was to you. How you never had to guess what I was thinking. How I would explain what I needed, what I liked, how I wanted things to go. I always need clear directions, so I spoke them too, just in case you did as well.

If my face had subtitles, then they must have been in a language you couldn’t read.

If I was an open book, then you must have never picked me up.

It was my birthday yesterday, and a couple of the kids I work with wished me a happy birthday. They didn’t sing to me, they did that yesterday even though they knew it wasn’t actually my birthday yet. They’re silly like that.

It was my birthday yesterday, my mom called me while I was at work fighting off yawns. It was 7pm and I’d been up since 6am. She’s coming down this weekend with my sister to “treat me”

It was my birthday yesterday, and I think my best friend almost forgot. She didn’t text me, but she did find me later to give me some donuts and brownies. That was nice of her. (I don’t really like sugar all that much though)

It was my birthday yesterday, and the person who made it the most special was my ex-girlfriend. We still live together, we’re still friends, but it’s different, it’s strange.

It was my birthday yesterday, and the day before I cried because of a difficult student. The day before that I had to lay in bed for an hour, the void in my chest and brain a little too heavy.

It was my birthday yesterday, and it didn’t feel all that different. I’m just surprised I’ve made it this far. I didn’t think I’d make it past 17.

Maybe I got it from my dad, he’s always been kind and caring, never one to yell, always the one to offer a hug or try to brighten up the room. He’s one of the only men I’ve seen cry over movies. He tries not to show his kids how much he worries, how much he cares, but my mom always talks about how sensitive he is…

(I wish he would have shown me, just once, maybe then I’d have understood him better. Maybe then I would have realized you can be strong and a provider, feel so much and still protect others, instead of thinking I had to choose)

Maybe I got it from my mom, she’s always been the one with too much empathy. Who cares too much about other people. Who can’t hear about someone’s aches and pains without feeling it herself…

(Maybe that’s where I learned to hide it, I watched my mother cry too many tears over people who didn’t deserve them. I watched as she took on every bad thing she was ever shown, never protecting herself or her heart)

Maybe I just got it from me. Maybe I became the best and worst of my parents. Maybe I watched how my mom cared too much and how my dad chose to hide it away and I learned how to tuck my bleeding heart back into my sleeves. Put it somewhere nobody could find it, even myself.

There are many things I’ve wished for. I’ve wished for new toys for my birthday, I’ve wished for stubborn acne to go away, I’ve wished my sister would be a little nicer to me, I’ve wished to be a little taller than I am.

None of these really mattered if they came true or not, but I wished them anyways. It was easier to wish for things that didn’t really matter, than to wish for you.

The first time I wished for you, I was young. Small hands, knobby knees, new school. Desperate to get you to like me. I tried and tried and wished and wished and it didn’t work. You hated me, I could see it in your eyes. You tolerated my presence…until you didn’t.

You said words that made me never want to wish again, and I think you saw that in my eyes because the next day you apologized and let me listen to music with you.

And I thought maybe wishes could come true.

The next time I wished for you was only a few years later, I’d just figured out I could cut my hair short, just figuring out who I wanted to be. We had one class together separate from our friends, and that class became my favorite part of the day.

I would look at you and smile, then think for hours on how to make you smile too. Plan out ways I could make you laugh, how I could get closer, how to get you to maybe even love me. Without knowing what love really was, I wished for it, I wished for you.

And a second time my wish came true. It was beautiful and innocent and everything a first love should be. Holding hands in the halls of the school, sharing a peck on the cheek while blushing furiously. It was everything I wanted…until it wasn’t.

You asked to end things, saying we were probably better off as friends. I wish you never said that. I smiled and nodded anyways. Better as friends, yes, because friends was better than nothing.

Years went by, and still I wished. It became quieter, a soft ache that lived in the moments when I looked at you a little too long. It flared up when I made you laugh, when I saw you with someone else, when I’d shoot my shot again just to get a soft almost pitying smile from you.