Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Love Bleeds
Love bleeds.
That's why you waited so long before you let it out for the first time; once you prick that hole in your heart and let a little bit dribble out, it's all over. That red, gooey mess of angst and badly written poetry slowly oozes out of its hole, leaving a bit less of you with every moment. At first it's just a few drops; a flutter of butterflies here, a lingering glance there. Before you know it the drops have become a trickle, and the lingering glance has become the schoolyard crush. The flow's expansion becomes exponential; trickles become streams which become waves. Your first crush sends the heart racing and the love rushes forth like a geyser; her cold eyes and colder laugh stem the tide, but for only a moment. Rejection is only a minor obstacle; it pauses the bleed only so that it can be restored, doubled in strength as soon as the next girlish giggle makes its way into your ears. This pattern continues, over and over, until---and here you tremble for a moment, uncertain, so uncertain, so afraid, goddamit, so afraid--her.
Her, her, her.
God, do you love her; she crushes you with a glance and melts you with a laugh. The hole becomes a tear, and the blood rushes out at a deadly pace. Her eyes, her smile, her hair, her legs, her curves, her everything---they consume you. Nothing else in the world matters when she's there; an apocalypse on the outside wouldn't come close to the one within.
She may return this sentiment---she may not; it doesn't really make a difference, in the long run, for this is the moment. This is the peak---the heart never pulses again as strongly as it does for her, the tide never rises again as high as it does for her.
After this, it slows down.
Not noticeably, of course; the second is almost as good as the first, and the third almost as good as the second. But with every new girl there is a slowdown; the butterfly wings flap a little less, the glances linger a little less.
The trickle returns.
You only have so much left.
Your love's bleed has slowed down to a dribble; the girls you dreamed of holding hands with in grade school are now the ones you wake up next to, struggling to remember their name. The eyes that once hurt you are now filled with their own hurt; the timing would be ironic if it weren't so damn sad.
Why don't you love me, she pleads.
Why didn't you love me, I reply, leaving out that bitter little addendum, when I still could.
Love bleeds, and I...well, I have been bled dry.
recorded at 6:15 AM