on drunken lies and smiles

Its hard to argue when you won't stop making sense but my tongue still misbehaves and keeps digging my own grave.- Snow Patrol (Hands Open)
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I sip my malibu and orange juice and for just one split second I feel right, I cross my legs as I slide my arm behind my chair, smiling.

It's the kind of night that fits-

I am with friends, with people I like, with everyone who matters.

But then he ruins it.

He makes up lies and I try to quell them-

to no avail.

Suddenly that split second feels like a million years ago-

I can't really be here, I can't really be listening to this -these eyes can't all be on me- and why did I decide to wear such a low cut top tonight? Why did I do my hair? Do I have too much blush on? I feel flushed-

I need air.

I need to breathe.

I need to believe that you aren't judging me because I am a girl who likes to dress provocatively slip on a cute pair of heels go out with friends, smile, flirt, and talk about anything from religion to music to life.

It's who I am.

He shakes his head at me-

You don't really believe that, do you?

I am desperate for approval. To know he isn't like everyone else.

He shrugs-

who am I to judge?

My heart splinters just a little,

Look at me.

His eyes flit over me, never coming to rest.

You know me better than that.

He won't look me in the eye.

You're a disappointment.

I say the words, not out of spite, but because they are truthful.

He mumbles something, and I lean in close for him to repeat it-

I don't understand.

I look at him, I still don't get it.

I don't get disappointment.

His breath is warm against the side of my face as I pull away from the whispered words.

I smile half heartedly and walk away.

I won't let you be the one to break my heart,

not again.

on being just another story

Lucky you were born that far away so, We could both make fun of distance, Lucky that I love a foreign land for, The lucky fact of your existence, Shakira (Whenever, Whereever)

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That’s gross,

He says, referring to the toothbrush comment.

I laugh in response -probably mumble something incomprehensible- and wonder why I’m having this conversation anyway.

The end point being that it is hard to distinguish between the real and the unreal, and to be fair,

There is no reality to a love that makes one feel alone.

It’s not real, it’s just a story.

The lines blur, are you reading what has happened, or what I think when I am bored and have not written in awhile? (I’ll give you a hint… “She” and “I” are not the same.)

I am not in love-

I don’t know that I’ve ever been in love, I used to think I wanted to be, but now I think I want someone to love me, which is quite different.

I don’t want love.

I want to curl up and sleep and wake up with someone next to me who at least for that night actually thinks I’m worth something.

Boys don’t often get that.

I’ll read about me next,

His statement reads like a question, and I lack an actual answer.

I try to decide if his voice is teasing or if he believes it,

But to be honest I am too drunk to have a witty response.

My night is full of ‘je ne sais pas’s” and a kiss to silence when I don’t know what to say;

It’s easy when it’s dark to accept what is there, then try to understand what isn’t.