(The stories I never dared to share)
Some unsettling act of impulse and recklessness took over me that night. I wanted to get as intoxicated as possible. Intoxicated enough to forget every single detail of what I thought made up my life. I wanted to forget the pretense of the love I insisted that my then relationship offered. I wanted to forget the girl that drove me wild in every way she knew how. I wanted to forget the guilt of nearly destroying the only boy who I thought could ever love me that immensely. I wanted to forget the scarring mistake of the one kiss that marked me off a dear friend's life. I didn't want any part of my own life. I just wanted to stay in that room with My Partner of that Night's Particular Crime and drink with him until I couldn't see my own hands.
I remember the exact moment when I knew that I had lost all discretion. I walked up and down the sidewalk with a cigarette in my hand and I laughed to myself about how I wanted to stay planted to where I was right then. Ironically enough, I was falling over myself; seeing doubles, triples, all of them. I wanted to cross the street to get to the other side, then back again. Over and over again. I looked over at him and saw in his eyes what would normally leave me uneasy, but instead took comfort in it, and smiled to myself. I was about to shatter the very ground I walked on. I remember entering the house, and everything else was a fucked up blur.
Once I was inside, I drank some more. I drank enough to present myself so rudely to what could've been my new acquaintances. I drank straight out of a perfectly blue bottle. "You could use a cup," she scorned. But I ignored her. Smiled. Then proceeded to the living room. Then I met a big gay guy. God only knows if I could ever remember his name. But it didn't matter. Because after he kissed My Partner in that Night's Particular Crime, I ended up kissing My Partner in that Night's Particular Crime.
I remember a bedroom. I remember the darkness of that bedroom. I remember a mattress in that bedroom in which I had foolishly and shamelessly made myself bare of any recognition of the person I thought I was. Of the person anyone thought I was. And I remember not finding it in myself to stop. I went along with every single movement. And I felt absolutely... nothing. Not a single touch. I heard not a single word. I couldn't remember the tiny details or the little moans. But after I remember puking in the corner of that dark bedroom. Disgust and alcohol erupting up and out my body.
The next thing I remember was waking up not in my clothes. I remember waking up to the familiar smell of his room. I woke up to a pounding in my head. I woke up trying to recall anything that happened at all. But what really woke me up was that same disgust and alcohol trying to erupt up and out of my body that had me rushing to the bathroom and getting closely acquainted to the porcelain of the toilet first thing in the morning. And this scene repeated again, and again, and again. And I hoped that puking out my guts and all my other vital organs and my entire body would make me feel better. But no matter how many heaves, I couldn't flush the night's crime down the toilet. Unlike the alcohol, that night stayed in my system and resided in me until I pleaded and begged on my hands and knees.
That night pulled the gravel from under my feet. I tripped and slipped and fell flat on my face. Then it dragged me by the ankles and scraped me down the street until the skin that contained my body became red, raw, and gone. My face never recovered the same and the shattered ground I walked on never felt the same under my feet ever again. Not a day goes by that I don't think about the implications of what I had done. Not a day goes by that I don't hope that maybe one day I'll be forgiven. And sometimes the days are alright and I think I've forgiven myself. But now I walk around seeking forgiveness and redemption. I'm nearly in tiptoes, in high hopes that I never shatter the ground I walk on again.
151
Some unsettling act of impulse and recklessness took over me that night. I wanted to get as intoxicated as possible. Intoxicated enough to forget every single detail of what I thought made up my life. I wanted to forget the pretense of the love I insisted that my then relationship offered. I wanted to forget the girl that drove me wild in every way she knew how. I wanted to forget the guilt of nearly destroying the only boy who I thought could ever love me that immensely. I wanted to forget the scarring mistake of the one kiss that marked me off a dear friend's life. I didn't want any part of my own life. I just wanted to stay in that room with My Partner of that Night's Particular Crime and drink with him until I couldn't see my own hands.
I remember the exact moment when I knew that I had lost all discretion. I walked up and down the sidewalk with a cigarette in my hand and I laughed to myself about how I wanted to stay planted to where I was right then. Ironically enough, I was falling over myself; seeing doubles, triples, all of them. I wanted to cross the street to get to the other side, then back again. Over and over again. I looked over at him and saw in his eyes what would normally leave me uneasy, but instead took comfort in it, and smiled to myself. I was about to shatter the very ground I walked on. I remember entering the house, and everything else was a fucked up blur.
Once I was inside, I drank some more. I drank enough to present myself so rudely to what could've been my new acquaintances. I drank straight out of a perfectly blue bottle. "You could use a cup," she scorned. But I ignored her. Smiled. Then proceeded to the living room. Then I met a big gay guy. God only knows if I could ever remember his name. But it didn't matter. Because after he kissed My Partner in that Night's Particular Crime, I ended up kissing My Partner in that Night's Particular Crime.
I remember a bedroom. I remember the darkness of that bedroom. I remember a mattress in that bedroom in which I had foolishly and shamelessly made myself bare of any recognition of the person I thought I was. Of the person anyone thought I was. And I remember not finding it in myself to stop. I went along with every single movement. And I felt absolutely... nothing. Not a single touch. I heard not a single word. I couldn't remember the tiny details or the little moans. But after I remember puking in the corner of that dark bedroom. Disgust and alcohol erupting up and out my body.
The next thing I remember was waking up not in my clothes. I remember waking up to the familiar smell of his room. I woke up to a pounding in my head. I woke up trying to recall anything that happened at all. But what really woke me up was that same disgust and alcohol trying to erupt up and out of my body that had me rushing to the bathroom and getting closely acquainted to the porcelain of the toilet first thing in the morning. And this scene repeated again, and again, and again. And I hoped that puking out my guts and all my other vital organs and my entire body would make me feel better. But no matter how many heaves, I couldn't flush the night's crime down the toilet. Unlike the alcohol, that night stayed in my system and resided in me until I pleaded and begged on my hands and knees.
That night pulled the gravel from under my feet. I tripped and slipped and fell flat on my face. Then it dragged me by the ankles and scraped me down the street until the skin that contained my body became red, raw, and gone. My face never recovered the same and the shattered ground I walked on never felt the same under my feet ever again. Not a day goes by that I don't think about the implications of what I had done. Not a day goes by that I don't hope that maybe one day I'll be forgiven. And sometimes the days are alright and I think I've forgiven myself. But now I walk around seeking forgiveness and redemption. I'm nearly in tiptoes, in high hopes that I never shatter the ground I walk on again.
