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Feb 25, 2005
Roughly 11:15 in the evening. Broken hearts forget how to tell time. All they do is watch the sun rise and set on their fake smiles.

This is some pathetic excuse for sourgraping. This beats metafiction, even the surreal problem of metablogging. This should be dubbed metacrying—crying about crying. Crying, for example because you are crying about your Mom docking your allowance when your busting-at-the-seams passbook is—and forever will be—in your hands. Or, more tragic, crying because I just can’t seem to get why he was with her, and why I cared, why I tried so hard to pretend not to care while he was desperately searching my curled hair for some sign of emotion, why I even tried to be civil to him when he obviously was an arse, a dickhead with a penis for brains. But then, oh, some penis he had to write the way he—sometimes—did. Crying because of bewilderment, out of crying because I lost my pen, I seem to have lost everything important I had. The thing is, this is metacrying. I cry because I am not supposed to care; the thing is we had nothing, nothing Adrian. I told you that with a teasing smile while curled up in bed. Yes, after I told you I cannot bring you home to Ma, after you asked me twice why. The thing is I thought I didn’t like you, not anymore, not after you spoke about sex so much I had to dodge your bullets. The thing is I knew days ago that you’re probably going to be with her tonight. The thing is I laughed my head off at anyone who asked if I was going to be all right with it because hell, in my exact words, “I don’t care.” But it turned out I did. I do. For why else will this be?

I have my blog(s) but I can’t, can’t rant there. You read my online journal; you say it is the only blog you even visit. You can’t see me shattered. From what I showed you tonight, I couldn’t care less if the earth cracked open at your feet and swallowed you whole, or if some cannibal minced you to pieces and ate you with soy sauce. And while you tried so hard to connect by catching my eyes for more than a few times before and during the poetry reading, you never really tried enough. How could you? She was there to read you a poem, her poem, her poem for you. All I could give you for now is a tear suspended in mid-drop, and poems not yet ready to leave me. I am that sad, that lonely. But with my poetry, I (hope) I will never be alone.

But then again, you read me all the time. You can always tell. I bet you are thinking right now how to make me feel like I was not betrayed (really, I was not). You know me that well. You know me as well as you know the beer I drank with poet friends, the Strong Ice I gargled without you, or because I was without you, or because you were with her? My world spun as I got up to leave—I couldn’t stand merriment, not tonight—and I thought how you were always the expert, and how you could’ve saved me from that beer.

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