Strawberry Pop Tarts, Promises, and Grape Soda

8/27/14

When you have no one else to go to, your heart returns to the last one it had its grasp on. My heart, it returned to the boy caught between manhood and childhood with the wide eyes and wild smile. It returned to him like a messenger pigeon coming home… it had done its duty: made me binge on the sweetness of his love for a second and then had me purging to get the sickly taste of him from my insides. I couldn’t help but feast on everything that was him like it was thanksgiving… and I was thankful he would even acknowledge me today.

But most days, I’m left alone with his picture plastered to the front of my mind and a flannel that doesn’t smell like him anymore… but I still manage to find traces lingering. Most days, its a battle to get out of my house without seeing him in the curve of a tree branch (he used to climb trees to get closer to the stars– they were always constant you see. He used to promise me consistancy. But that was before Goodbye was a thing of our future). Most days, I still see him in the aisles of the grocery store. He loved strawberry poptarts and grape soda… but who doesn’t, right? Who doesn’t…

Things had gotten better for awhile. I took off his flannel and didn’t wear it again for 3 months… I went outside and laughed with friends. Everything regarding him went into a lockbox and I threw out the key. I promised myself I wouldn’t ever open that box again.

I was never good at keeping promises. Especially not to myself.

As soon as his messenger pigeon pecked on my window with a simple “hey, I was just wondering how you’re doing” and I saw the key tied to the birds leg, the box was opened.

It was like our push-pull relationship was a bunch of stepping stones over a river. I always managed to fall again and again, and he hopped across perfectly everytime.

I was always suppose to be the one to fall harder, to fall too quickly. I understand that now. I understand now that he’s always been better at keeping promises… even if they’re the kind that are made with sharpest of knives and unwilling participants. But you see, I don’t know how to not want his heart when I have no one else to go to. My heart still has his name tagged on its address book, but I’m tired of getting his bills. I’m tired of paying the price for him leaving and returning whenever he feels like it… but I don’t know how to stop staying put. He promised consistancy. There’s a kind of concistancy in pain. I understand that now. I just wish he had promised me something else. Something that didn’t hurt when you grasp it.

———

I don’t mean to sound pessimistic. Or melancholy. Or like I’m holding onto the past… but you see babycakes, we all have those people. The ones that come traipsing back into your life whenever they think they can. They don’t realize they have caused any damage… they don’t realize that you were their unwilling victim of 2 am promises from tree tops over strawberry poptarts and grape soda.. But you know it. I know it. Its our cycle to break.

I’m not good at promises, but I promise that if you have no one else to go to, heart can come to me. It can drop off its heavy load in my inbox. I promise that I’ll answer. That I’ll read all of your words like they’re my favorite novel.

I’m not good at making and keeping promises. Espicially to myself.

But I can keep this one, I promise.

Sweetheart, I don’t have any wise words for you. I don’t have a list of steps for you to follow to get rid of these people. But I do have something to say and by gosh, I hope you clean your ears and listen to this one. If you haven’t taken any of my words to heart, I hope you take these babe:

Even if you have someone your heart grasps onto, you can force your fingers to unclench and let go and learn to live again. You can live this life with your fingers spread, your palms ready to grasp the world.

I’m not good at keeping promises, babycakes. But I can promise you that. You can live with arms wide open and a heart full of love for the whole world. I can promise you that.

You can get across the stepping stones and send that messenger pigeon home. You can go down those grocery aisles again and stop wearing his flannel. You can stop seeing him in trees and stars and shadows.

You don’t have to live your life haunted by those people any longer… you may think you’re heart has no one to turn to, but babycakes I’ll always be hear to wipe your

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