Not Done

So I end up on your street, sitting there in my parked car, after pulling my window up with my hands. I cried there for what seemed like hours. I guess I couldn't leave because that was the closest I could get to the comforting that I felt I should have been doing. I DON'T DO THIS, I called twice, left a message, text messaged twice, and I'm left pathetic and defeated in my car. Somehow all the little things disappeared; the smell of b.o., my sleep depravation, all the other people in the world. You said that you would rather have no one there, and a heavy wave of devastation washed over me, leaving me feelings more useless than I could ever remember. If I couldn't find the right words to say or things to do to have things go the right way tonight then what was the point, my point? When he looked at me and said you were so intimidating, there was absolutely nothing else to say but agree. I was scared more than anything. I kept picturing your face the last time that I saw it. I know that I am selfish and immature, but at the time I thought that I was right by asking whether you wanted me there, where you wanted to go, what you wanted to do, if you wanted to talk about it, if you wanted to be alone; I let you do what you said you wanted me to and I was wrong. I didn't know there was anything else to do. But when I told you that I wanted to be there for you no matter what you said, "You just weren't" and my beautiful night was ruined. I asked if you didn't want me to come inside after you ignored my calls and you said, "I'd really rather be alone", and my wonderful life in that moment, was ruined. I pulled my sweatshirt over my face and I cried for myself. my dramatically failed attempts to be the person I wanted to be with you, and it was there, filling my car like smoke. I cried for you. Every time that I cry that hard I have this flashback to being younger, and gasping for air on my mom's bed. I am thinking about her bed, and choking there alone in the dark. The last time that I looked at the time it was one in the morning, and the next time I looked it was nearly two. I couldn't drive home if I wanted to I realized, it wasn't even safe. But I wanted to crash, as I pulled away from the curb I wanted to hit something and make this feeling go away. Because these are your last two weeks and I can't change... anything. The car radio was silent on the drive home, after I sent you, "i'm really sorry i fucked up. goodnight". Alone and empty I roll down my window and feel the cold morning breeze against my arm. You didn't want to see me and I cared about nothing else. I gave up. I woke up from my quick rest, and remember how I told you weeks ago, "I'd rather mess up and do something you hate me for forever than have you just get sick of me", "you're not using the right words; you mean if I get over it", "no, it's not that at all, I mean if you get sick of me", "but I wouldn't forgive you, I would stay mad at you", "I know, that's fine."

I would rather make a mistake in choices than not make a mistake and have this be about who I am.

I was crushed to think about how you were one of the few people in the world that when I talked to them they made me feel alright about myself. And look at me now.

I picture scenes from that movie, but my life, and getting rid of everything that reminded me of you that I owned. My eyes are closed, and in my head I'm peeling your papers and pictures off of my wall, covering your drawings, deleting your files, throwing away that sweatshirt, hiding your childhood pictures, giving away your gifts, erasing all that music. It was all you, in everything.

I work on your going-away present, and you probably have no interest in seeing me.