I've never told anyone anything ever.

 

Nothing, at least, has meant anything.

Maybe nothing I've done has meant anything?

Maybe I don't have anything

to say.

I've sat there before.

People have

told

me

what seems like everything.

They’ve told me what happened and how they feel,

and I’ve nodded, patting them on the back saying

“It's going to be alright.”

 

People all have the same problems.

They've been dumped, or they're depressed,

or

They've been dumped because they're depressed.

They're unconfident.

They're inadequate.

 

Obligated to ask about my problems,

they ask, even though I don't really have many.

 

I talk about things like

how I hate Sunday's

because they're the worst God-damned day of them all.

How I wake up every Sunday,

early.

Then I stay up every Sunday,

late.

Until every Sunday is longer than every Saturday,

and I hate it all the more for being both the longest,

and the worst day out of the week.

 

I talk about how my family and I were on vacation and my dad drank absinthe.

How he drank it because Van Gogh drank that,

and because my dad wanted to be like him.

So he drank.

He got back to our hotel room.

He was a mess.

He was a mess and I was eleven.

We hid

in

the

bathroom.

 

Me, my sister and my mom,

we waited for him to

 

pass

 

out.

 

That night the only thing we heard for a long time was the bathroom fan,

and Van Gogh

stumbling around,

cussing.

 

A starry, starry night.

 

Van Gogh didn't paint better because he drank absinthe.

Van Gogh cut off his ear because of it.

 

I've never told anyone anything ever,

 

but people have told me everything.

They've been drunk while I was sober,

crying while I did the opposite.

 

We were in a bedroom.

We were going to talk about it.

She had to pee.

She went to the bathroom in the adjacent room.

I heard the sink turn on.

It drowned out the sound of piss hitting the toilet bowl.

 

She got out of the bathroom.

 

I sat on the bed across from her.

 

She stood in the threshold,

looking at me.

She almost started to cry.

It was as if the tears wanted to come out,

but she didn't want them to.

She was

blankly,

tearlessly

crying.

Totally blank.

It's odd seeing someone cry so hard,

how one can

cry and cry and cry

while just laying in their bed, looking out the grey window, silent and with dry eyes.

 

She sighed and looked down.

I sat on the bed and wondered what would happen next.

She stumbled towards me and got on top of me.

Maybe I wanted it to happen.

I considered it,

and hated myself.

I pushed her off,

said I wanted to talk about what had happened to her.

She hated herself and

 

him.

 

I tried to comfort her.

Tried to help.

I was pushed away like I was the one she hated.

She drunkenly fell off the bed and onto the floor face-down.

She covered her face with her hands

as if she could hide from the carpet she buried herslef in.

She opened her mouth

screaming without sound

and sobbed into the floor.

 

Her back rose and fell.

Tears flowed out of her like rain.

She sobbed and shook and screamed into the carpet.

I sat on the edge of the bed and watched,

 

unable to help and unable to leave.

Unable to touch, unable to comfort.

 

It was hell.

I listened to her breath catch on the snot in her nose,

saw her fingers grab the beige shag and pull,

as if she grabbed the carpet hard enough she could go away from here.

 

 

My curfew came around and I had to leave.

I told someone to take care of her.

When I left, he fucked her.

 

 

I've never told anyone anything ever

yet we continue on.

 

We are born imperfect

We die imperfect

But somewhere in the middle

Maybe only for a second,

We are perfect

 

We are perfect because, despite everything, we continue on

We chase deer,

We dive into the shallow end.

We make love in station wagons,

We blow bubbles in our chewing gum.

 

 

I've never told anyone anything ever,

yet here I am,

Sunday night,

writing this on the best God-damned day of them all