July 26, 2003

The chapter closes itself

a/n: to my scar, who will always, always be pretty.


Maybe this is where I should start crying.

But then, I promised I wouldn't, so I'm not. I'm not. And it's actually easier this way because God knows I do not know how to cry. It's been years, you know? One good cry, a fucken deluge, it's been years. And I don't even remember the last time I cried so hard, I couldn't breathe.

But hey, hey, the feeling's coming back, and I don't know what to do with myself.

The chapter closes itself. I am sorely tempted to think I pity myself for closing a chapter without a story. That's what we are, you and I – it's an empty chapter, baby, and I'm not even about to ask why.

Why. I don't blame you for not writing – I'm not even begging you to try, for crying out loud. (god, try, god… damn it.) I'm not about to make you do something you don't want to. Perhaps it would come to you as a surprise, how an agreeable person I am, but this is me, my friend. I'm notorious for making the stupidest kinds of compromise… but hey, they work.

But we all know how bad a word 'compromise' is, eh?

Yeah, yeah, we do, don't we?

It could have been a pretty book, you know? You and me, it could've been pretty, it could've been something nice, something cute, something a lot like you and I. Maybe it could've been a little like you, or a little like me, or a little like the both of us, in a weird, funny way. It could've been a lot things.

But it doesn't matter now, does it? I think I kinda lost you at "It could".

It couldn't. It breaks my heart to hear you say it, but it's true, and I know it – it couldn't. And it breaks me further to hear you say that you don't want to try because you don't want to fail, but yeah, yeah, I know, I know that part well, and I know this is all part of the compromise.

It's shitty, I know, but it cannot be fixed. Like most things.

Pretty Scars

You say it should be stopped. Before it could go any further. Because you're scared.

You say maybe it's a phase, maybe it would go away, maybe I'd find somebody else, maybe the feeling would just fade, or melt, or sublimate, or something. You say maybe it could just disappear, and we could just one day sit down and laugh our heads off, saying things like, "What were you thinking?!" and shouting back things like, "What was *I* thinking?? No, what were *you* thinking…" –


But you can't tell me that now. Not most especially now. You can't tell me I should go look for diversion. You can't tell me to stop liking you, not now, because I can't stop, not automatically. Unfortunately, I don't work on five-peso-coins. I'm human.

And the attraction is so strong.

It was, it still is, and I am tempted to say it will always be. But then, just like "never," I know the word "always" is also a promise. And I know you would have none of that. not from me.

You say you wish I could've just told you some time later, you know, when the feeling's gone – probably, the past tense comforts you, and the present-ness of this thing I blurted out for the first time rather carelessly one lazy Wednesday evening is just driving you insane.

You are not alone. It's been eating me from the inside for eight goddamn months.

Maybe, you're just a phase, though I don't wish to call you that. I don't wish to reduce you to something, because you are that important to me. I don't want to think I can get you out of my system that quickly, because that would reduce you to something… something less.

Something you're not. And I don't want that. I want the exit to be slow and sure, and yes somewhat painful.

Yes there's gotta be blood, you know how I'm deathly scared of them, but yeah, there would be. Blood and pain.

You will leave me a scar. And it's going to be pretty, actually.

You will be my pretty scar, forever a memory.

My favorite mistake

You are something I would never regret. I would never regret liking you, despite the weirdest of circumstances, and I would never regret telling you that I did.

If you're a mistake – I know it's cliché, but you're one of my favorites.

You say I'm stupid. For getting drawn. Well, haha, maybe I am. You know, stupid. If I knew better, then maybe I wouldn't have gotten myself into this mess in the first place.

Honey, if I were smarter, I wouldn't be here, making the mistake that is you.

But I don't regret being stupid. I don't regret anything.


You say you're scared because some things in the past just didn't turn out right. You say that part of your life's over and done with, and that you're moving on, you're fighting it, and you say I gotta help you out.

You don't realize you just stopped short of saying I should go and shoot myself. (Because in death, there is the certainty that this thing that constitutes both our problems will end. For sure, indeed.)

How long were they – two weeks? Two hours? Two minutes?

It's been two days, and I realize, too, that I don't want to be another statistic.

You say I'm not like the others – you know, those who get what they want. Apparently, I don't like pushing things. Again, I say, I'm not about to make you do something you wouldn't want to in the first place.

You say we couldn't – you know, get together? You say you're scared it wouldn't work.

I say something like I'm more scared of not trying, and you say you're scared of regret. And then it dawns upon me – we're just two very scared people.

It breaks me again, the realization. I want you, and it's scaring me even more. And it hurts staring at you staring at me, and hearing the words, "We can't."

We could, you know. We could have.

But we're not, it's your call, after all. And when you say we're not, we're not.

And I know I can't make you.

(The silence of the Film Center breaks me, too.)


You ask me why I took the risk to tell you, I say something like the guilt was killing me. You ask me if there was anything else, I say none.

You ask me if I wanted anything in return.

"Like what?" I ask.

"Like… You know," you say, and you start fumbling with your phone, absently locking and unlocking the keypad. Aha, diversion.

"It will be hypocritical of me to say I didn't want anything in return," I admit. "But I can't push you where you don't want to go."


"We can't do this," you say.

It's surprising, how somebody hell scared of eye contact could take so much of this in, like taking every word from your eyes and into mine.

It's clear. The tendencies are there, but you can't go too far. It's too complicated, your network of reasons. And all I can say is that I understand.

Well, then again, maybe I do.

If this is going to be a scar, I swear it's going to be a pretty one

I was wondering what the last line of what could have been our pretty book could have been –

Ah yes.

To my scar, who will always be pretty.

I think that's exactly it.