take your memories, i don't need em.

Back where I started again.
Blonde haired and broken hearted and thank God for best friends who will hold me while I cry my eyes out on an orange shag rug.
Our day started with Buddhist books and cheap Chinese food.
I find sanctuary in a book store and we sat for an hour with our legs crossed while we marveled at all the glossy covered miracles in front of us. We sat in a naturally lit hole-in-the-wall and ate broccoli and chicken for 7.50 with chop sticks we stole from Trader Joes. We planned our futures and laughed at the neon painting of paradise glowing above us. Surrounded by paper bouquets and fresh peas and hungry construction workers, her blue eyes made me calm. They eased my anxiety about that brown haired catastrophe I convinced myself I was in love with. Hours later and I’m bawling again. The radio is broken in her car and the silence is eating me up and making those tears sound like screams. While I was home taking meds and sipping tea and watching too much O.C he was out tasting someone else’s lips. Breaking promises at football games and dance clubs and then swearing we would be okay. That he still loved me.

Driving to his house in all that summer heat and even if it wasn’t 100 degrees I still think I’d be sweating in my Clash vintage tee and low rider jeans. All the makeup in the world couldn’t cover the tear tracks that have been streaming down my face but my eyes never look bluer than when I’ve been crying over the boys I love. He gave me back my Tiffany’s necklace and Guster CD. He gave me back the five page note I wrote him before I flew away to Hawaii. He gave me back my pony tail and flicked the other one on his wrist. “this one isn’t even yours.” It hurt and he knew it and I ran back to that music-less car because I’ll be damned if I let him see me fall apart over him. Him and his Hollister uniform. Him and his stupid raps. Him and his bad taste in movies and distaste for literature and smoky smelling car. Him and his promises and his brown eyes and his tickle-happy fingers. Him and his lies. And his lies. And his lies. I want him to know that today I will cry. I will talk down high school hallways in a pink Indie top and smile, then rush to quiet bathrooms to silently cry in closterphopic stalls. Today I will grieve, not because I miss him. Not because I want his freckled arms around me or his car in my driveway. I will cry because I stayed up all night making him that scrapbook for his birthday. Because I planned sunset skies in a hot air balloon and him in a tuxedo at Homecoming. Because we will never go sledding like he said we would.
But tommorow, tommorow darling boy that thought he'd shatter me, tommorow I will not cry. I will sing those break up songs in the shower and sway my hips when I walk and forget how bad it hurt when you text messaged me at midnight. I will eat lunch with my best friend and dream about weekends of not having to call you. Not having to hear your voice and wonder why it sounds like its dripping with deciet. I will laigh and flirt and smile and wear that pink lip gloss you never liked. I loved it.
tommorow is a new day.