Author: earthtomars

“because i’m a fucking hopeful person–”
& he cut me off with that “wowww-i-can’t-believe-you-just-said-that” condescending laugh.
“hopeful?? HOPEFUL?? that’s the LAST word i’d use to describe you. i’d use quite the opposite word actually.”
that should’ve been an obvious sign to hang up the phone.
pleading with someone who knows me so little
for all our time together
means he’ll never understand.

but that’s the thing
i wanted the impossible.

i constantly wage wars against my self doubts & inner judges
& let the smallest glimmers of hope consume me
a slight inflection in your voice
an open-ended text
a possibility of you aligning your day to mine because my flight gets in early enough type thing

instead of it being that flickering small guiding light in the night sky
it becomes my sun.
my morning,
my focus,
my warm obsession to get through the night.

what you saw,
in the three years,
was me bridling my hope. constantly.
because i measured what you could give
& what i could ask for
& found painting my night sky orange
was just too devastating when you’d change it back to black.
so i set my sights lower
& only placed my hope on bets i knew i could win.

THAT is why i’m not a “fucking hopeful person”

… to you.

“im sorry, the door on that side doesn’t have a keyhole”
“..so if it did, you would open the car door for me? like a gentleman?”
“of course.”

& i got excited.
rejuvenated a bit.
i get to decide now
whether i find a guy who likes to open car doors for girls.. or not.
one of many conditions & things important to me
but still
i get a say.

instead of,
these are the things he comes with.. & wont do..
but i’m already neck deep in the thick of it all..
& i love him so much it hurts
that i cross off those conditions & things important to me
to make it work.

no no
this is a clean start.
without history
& longevity
& all our hopes & dreams tied to the tail end of our ship
sinking it slowly but surely.

i get to choose.

you made me small.
no — correction. i let myself be small.
with the chip chip chipping at the surface
because it was, well hell, the surface doesn’t make me me.
my hobbies, my interests,
i can afford to change those
& cater those.
because to be with you, i can watch soccer
& volleyball
& lift weights because you want us to do it together.

then it was my time.
the lack of it – in terms of what was spared for me in a day
& the lack of consideration for it — in terms of keeping me available to your “unpredictable” schedule
[between the two of us: one who flies across the world in a day & the other who works a 6-3 job .. whose is really unpredictable?]
chip chip chipping at my value in time
how its used
how its sacrificed
how its taken freely
with no apologies
but its ok. because i cannot control time.. so i cant really quantify it as a part of me right?
so the essence of taking it from me.. its ok. it’ll be ok.

then it was what made me happy.
because in your head what makes you happy should make me happy as well
because finding two paths to the same destination is impossible to you.
mine is a road of solitude
yours is a loud, bustling, chaotic path
& you made me walk on yours.
chip chip chipping at the deeper inner parts of me
the parts that screamed how uncomfortable
how painful it was
but i let it go.
because in the end we want the same thing.

then you took a step back
& realized you chipped too much
here & there
the mass caved where it shouldnt
& curved where it should’ve remained straight
so you scrapped the whole fucking work.

i let myself be small for you.

maybe i want to date my best friend.
maybe i want to ensure that you are,
indeed,
a good friend–
first & foremost.

i dont know why it pleases me so
when you can call my bluff
read my tells
mimic my reactions & comebacks
in response to your own

my 8th grade English teacher singled me out in front of the class one afternoon
in the middle of his reiteration of an extensive list of assignments we had yet to turn in
he had just told us he’d only give us the rest of the class to finish it all, so make it count–
when he gave pause to his thoughts,
& told the class that he always knew when he was pushing us too hard
piling it on too thick
or just plain broke us
because of my face.
apparently my face had no filter
my candid expression bought us an extra study period
my 8th grade self was pretty proud of that

but my 28 year old self wishes
she wasnt so easy to blush
& be wooed
& wouldnt turn all starry-eyed
every time you asked, “why are you making that face?”
& i respond innocently, “what face? i can’t see my face?”
& you go on & call my bluff for the thousandth time
reading my thoughts as clear as day.
its like youre that magician asking, “is this your card?”
& i plead for you to do that trick again & again.

i have a hero complex
when im flailing
& drowning
& someone swoops in
with such ease
& grace
& brimming with experience
just oozing from their pores
their pheromones are intoxicating.
liberating.
everyone wants a hero.
in my head i just turn it around
& see any attempt to help
as a beaming halo

& then im hooked.

i don’t like vegas.
i don’t like the smoke
and the noisy machines
or how people meander aimlessly
mentally assessing which machines are “lucky” today
and how they halt in the middle of walkways to watch someone else win it big
i don’t like the skepticism
& hooplah made about “almoooostttt” winning that one time..
i don’t like black friday shopping
the way i get hit by bags while navigating crowded outlet malls
or people snatching items right out from in front of you
i don’t like the greed & overindulgence i see in people
it makes me lose my appetite for shopping altogether.

i’m a recluse.
a girl of solitude.
i enjoy knitting.
& sleeping in without an alarm.
endless chatter
& flashing lights
& the constant smoke
grinds on me.
wears on me.
until i feel like all i am are frayed edges.

the moments i live for
the time that makes me giddy inside
& gives me the slightest bit of hope for finding joy in this adventure next year
is the four hour drive from LAX to LAS.
just you,
me,
maroon5 pandora station
& the deep dark sky
the openness could swallow you whole
but there’s us.
in our SUV.
where i don’t have to feel guarded
& rushed
where i can listen to you sing off-key
& tell me for the hundredth time how much you love maroon5.
i live for peaceful moments.
we are so different.
& i often feel so worn down
by making parts of me smaller
& trading out pieces for other shinier ones
to make my plainness less noticeable
but our road trip moments make me feel
whole again.
like the girl on that drive
her entire being
is enough.

when people say they’ve found the one
they often say that The One makes them a better person
makes them want to be better.

How does this happen?
because you are constantly
consistently
trying to make me different.
peel away this awkward layer
restructure the way you think
wipe that look of disinterest off & plaster on fake enthusiasm

is that what they mean?
when they say The One makes them a better person
who are they becoming better for?
themselves?
or their partner?

because all of these changes
all of these nagging
necessities
to fit the book
are all superficial
they’re interests
& hobbies
& not definitive characteristics
but you treat them as if they’re all dealbreakers

in my core
in my deepest parts
i care about family
& having an excellent work ethic
& supporting myself
& being a good listener
& animals
& giving back to my community

but that seems almost irrelevant
because i dont like to gamble
& hate last minute plans
& detest all forms of cardio
& hate being interrupted with bombarding questions
& cant function in a messy room
& hate laziness

so let me ask again
when they say The One makes them a better person
i need to know,
for who?