500 Days of Summer
I have small mental breakdowns every time I watch this movie and yet I cannot stop
I cry and cry and cry and cry and wonder if I really should start it over and I always do I always do I
Always come back to you
Every time I watch this movie a piece of me leaves
And finds it’s way to you and you keep it and don’t let it go and I don’t know maybe that’s why I keep watching it maybe I want it this way maybe I don’t but to hell with it I’ve seen this movie three times tonight why not go for a fourth yes you can have my liver why not last time you got my kidney and the time before my pinky toe I just don’t care take it all I just want to watch this movie
Puckers and swells
Like the strawberries I ate earlier
Staining my fingers
With self rejection
When the drops of water
Collect on top of my knee
And spill down the front of my shin
I shiver with the familiar trickle
It makes me think of the sunshine
I haven’t felt in years
The smile I almost forgot how to fake
And the taste of strawberries
And the stain they leave
No one asks questions about the stains they cannot see.
I’ve literally worried myself sick (nauseous and puking) last night into this morning with a pounding headache. I need to move back home. I need to help my mom.
And life returns to the lowest of the low.
Upon being asked on a date by yet another of my Mexican barely English speaking coworkers I come to the conclusion that yes all of my relationships are destined to be with men who literally cannot understand me.
Upon turning down the third man to ask me on a date in my second week here I decided a few things.
1.i am going home every weekend
2. I am very busy with lots of friends
3. I have about 7 other boyfriends
4. Every single thing I just numbered is a lie (but how would they know that)
Upon these four realizations I come to the conclusion tht I, emily Davis, shall be forever alone. Because no way in hell will I go on a date with a man old enough to be my father who doesn’t understand simple English words.
No thank you.
The way he looked at me and paused suggested he was waiting.
On what I’m not entirely sure, but I can only assume it was on me to say to him, “it gets better with time,” or “it gets easier,” or my favorite, “she really is the light of our lives.”
He stared at me for five seconds too long, his eyes searching back and forth between mine, hoping maybe my lips would part, the words would slip out, and his faith would be restored. He could call home to his brother and tell of the privileged white girl who knew how to fix this disease, who knew it got better, who had proof in her own family. I wanted to tell him it doesn’t matter where you are born or the color of your skin or the language you speak, pain looks the same on every face.
I stared back in silence. My puckered brow and slightly pursed lips all he needs to hear. I spare him the details.
The only advice I can think of he should hear but can’t bear to tell him is,
“It only gets worse from here.”
She moves back home on Saturday. We have no way out.
We have absolutely nothing.
I just want to know why. Why