Friday night, first week of May, you brought me here like a child. Hungry for new experiences. A new world. Scared that that world might not accept him as he is. Nervous.That night we drank, we danced, we laughed, and we kissed….
I did not go there to be a saint. Did not expect to make the best decisions, but also I didn’t expect to fall in love as deeply as I had. Like slipping on the precarious steps, always coated in a spilled drink to land in your arms. Or in your eyes.
Friday night, the first week of June. I have not been back to this place, not with you anyway. Not the bar it was when your hand was grazing the small of my back. It is a different bar now. The bar I go to on weekends to feel less alone. The bar where I made new friends and learned new coping mechanisms.
I did not go there to be a saint. Slept with a new venom each night to avoid thinking about all I would never be to you. Friends bought me drinks, sang karoke, and danced til my knees hurt or at least I think that was the dancing.
Friday night, the first week of August. How will I explain this experience tomorrow when I see him for the third time this week. How will I explain this night and the fear that is still fresh on my lips. The fear that I still want him to comfort nonetheless. I know that to him I am just a friend. Although his lips were pressed to mine four days prior. Although this body was bare in my bed just four days prior, but friends. That’s what friends are for right?
I did not go there to be a saint, but I did not go expecting to sin. Did not plan to relive mistakes of nights past. I planned to drive home that night. I had planned to stay sober that night. I planned to be safe that night. I had planned to be safe. Barely half past the witching hour and my arms begin to feel heavy. My head swoons as if the world is turning like a record. Playing on and on til I tell my friend “I would like to go home now please”. Walk the short path to her apartment where I stubbornly choose to drive home.
I did not go there to be a saint, but I had only indulged in two drinks that night. Over the span of four hours and two karaoke songs with my heart beating slower and slower. The drive home felt like my eyes weren’t mine. As if the trip was played out in someone else’s soap opera. I opened my apartment door, felt the comfort of my bed to remind me I am safe. Or at least I hoped. As the realization took over, as the lesson was learned. Always keep an eye on your drink. My head spun and my arms were pulled like magnets to the floor. I stubbornly fought for what felt like eternity til my eyes couldn’t take anymore. Til my head felt sore from the swords that pierced it. Until finally I let go and slept.
I slept for 12 hours that night. Woke the next day as if nothing had changed. As if I hadn’t changed. I did not go there to be a saint that night, but I thought I was safe. I thought I was safe.