Dancing on Quicksand

1:26AM: Sleepless, alone, and reflecting – the way you left me.

Today. I met you five years ago today. I’d never met such a gracefully awkward person

in my life. I met you by the swing carousel at the fairgrounds in our home town. You approached

me casually, nearly tripping on your own feet. Your almond hair, perfectly disheveled, drooped

to your eyebrows, slightly curling at the ends. They were the best accent to your warm, honey-

colored eyes, shining with potential; I could see my future in them. You introduced yourself, and

we made small talk while giggling for no apparent reason. You smiled at every word that

nervously stumbled from my quivering mouth. Your laugh was awkward; I loved it. It almost

distracted me from your cleft chin. You were so damn cute. You left me in awe; cliché is all I’ve

known how to be around you. Laughing once more, you introduced me to your girlfriend –

friends it was.

Absolute pain. For two years, I swallowed my feelings – choking on them. I watched you

date three new, lonely girls. They just wanted to be with someone; I just wanted to be with you. I

hated all of them, and I still do. I tried moving on. I wasted two years of my life on liars –

cheaters. Unwilling to wait for me to break my chastity, they found someone else. I started

feeling like I wasn’t good enough for anyone, especially you. Frightened by what you’d think of

me, I decorated myself with false happiness and pseudo confidence – my back straight, my soul

crooked. How could I tell you about my broken heart without asking you to fix it? It was time for

me to accept reality and let you go.

Never again. My suffering was over. One day, your birthday, you confessed your feelings

for me. Two years of suffering and misplaced trust were over. I could finally breathe. I stayed at

your house that night – a sleepover, your parents thought. Wide awake, we rambled confidently

about our future until the crickets decided to rest. Before closing your eyes, you yearningly

gazed into mine. Red-faced, you leaned into me, looking into my eyes once more. Your tender

lips met mine for the first time; I would never fear love again.

Nervous. You were so worried about what people would think of you that you kept our

relationship a secret to everyone you knew, and you forced me to do the same. I would spend

every evening with you – falling in love with that same awkward charm, over and over. I would

spend the next morning pretending like I didn’t know you, even when my friends asked about

you. I had to lied to the people I cared about most; I would’ve done anything for you. It was the

longest six months of my life, but I knew how you felt; I was as patient as I knew how to be. You

wouldn’t talk to me in school, and you refused to spend time with me in public. I was forced to

have a relationship that only existed in your living room when your parents weren’t around. I felt

more like a toy than I did your boyfriend, but I was certain it would be worth it.

Exhilarated. There was more adrenaline in my veins than blood. Trotting through the

hallways, stopping from locker to locker, I told the world about us. The words shot from my

mouth like bullets – slaughtering the oppressive secrecy. It felt just as I imagined it would – no –

better. These celebratory words felt just like our first kiss as they left my tongue; they were of

equal importance. The entire day left me feeling euphoric. This moment, this feeling, I waited

three years for it. Nothing could bring me down.

Regret. It was May by the time you let me spread word of us; you left me in June. The

truth was that you were getting bored of me. The lie you told me was that you didn’t think you

“liked me like that” anymore; I’m not sure which hurt me more. I saw my future leave your eyes

as mine began to moisten. I cried that night, and I cried every night after that for nearly a week; it

was the only way I could fall asleep. I couldn’t understand what I did wrong. I couldn’t

understand what was wrong with me.

Composed. I couldn’t let you know I was falling apart, especially when I knew you

weren’t. Just a month later, we were watching a movie at your house because I believed you

when you said we could still be friends. We sat three feet from each other on the floor, and I

wore a jacket to make sure you didn’t notice the weight I had gained from eating my emotions.

As the movie dragged on, you slid closer to me. I thought nothing of it until your hand was on

my lap; I was disgusted by you. You looked into my eyes with that same, awful gaze, and you

kissed me like it was the first time. My yearning for you overcame the uneasiness in my

stomach. I was yours again. I was happier than I had been in nearly a month; how fickle life can

be.

Hungry. I’m not sure what my problem was, but I ate whenever my hands weren’t busy.

There was an emptiness in myself that I needed to fill. Subconsciously, I must’ve thought it

would help. One day, a Friday, you noticed.

“Are you still eating? You’re starting to gain weight,” you reminded me. I stopped eating –

entirely. You had standards, and I couldn’t risk losing you again. I ran daily, and I ate nothing

but spinach and cucumbers. With every run, every skipped meal, the empty space I was trying to

fill expanded. Eventually, I felt like I was nothing.

Absolutely clueless. The more self-conscious I felt about myself, the more oblivious I

became about the abuse I was receiving from you. You created your own standards of what I had

to be for you. I was a pageant contestant fighting for your love. You would question my food

choices, tell me when you thought I needed a haircut, or urge me to whiten my teeth. You even

mocked the new choices I was making – my religion, my career goals. My own friends tried

confronting me about it, but I didn’t notice there was a problem until it was too late. I started

cursing the reflection in my bedroom mirror; I hated myself. I didn’t understand why I felt the

way I did because I was too in love with you to see what you were doing to me. No matter how

down I felt about myself, I managed to be happy – I had you, after all.

Reserved. Sex was something sacred and pure to me – for someone you love. Months

after meeting you, I met another boy. He was my way of getting over you. I was fifteen and

unaware of what it meant to love someone; he was eighteen and well aware of what it meant to

take advantage of someone. He was the first person I’d ever given myself to, and he was also the

first person to cheat on me. Because of this, I made you wait.

Liberation. With every kiss, you emancipated me from the accruing pain of lost love and

the disapproval I was receiving from you. With every layer of clothing you removed, a layer of

myself was stripped away too. Physically and emotionally bare, I gave you everything I had –

everything I was. Your fingers felt like paint brushes on my skin, leaving me a masterpiece. You

became the very heartbeat pumping blood through my veins – the very heartbeat that was then

harmonizing our seemingly eternal existence – the very heartbeat I would hear as I peacefully

dreamt upon your chest that same night. You were inarguably, perpetually mine, and together,

we were one.

Exploitation. After having sex for the first time, it was all you seemed to want from me.

You would invite me over every day after school to do homework, but you couldn’t keep your

tongue out of my mouth long enough to even start. We could only finish the first half of a movie

before you would have your hands on me again. I didn’t know what to do. My conscience

begged me to stop, but my heart was well aware of how badly it needed your love. The

confliction made me feel sick. I played along the best I could, but I got to a point where I

couldn’t stand being alone with you; I was disgusted by you.

Silence. I bit my naturally flippant tongue; I loved you, and I knew you wouldn’t tolerate

me telling you how I really felt. I was only meant to be your perfection – never a person.

Besides, in public, you were such a gentleman. I thought I could handle the tradeoff. We were

the only gay couple in our school; people thought we were perfect together, so how bad could

you have really been? Wearing matching shirts and ties, we would attend every school dance.

Everyone adored the way we looked together. Who was I to end it over something so little?

Senior year. In a single year, my entire life came to a halt. At first, I couldn’t have been

happier. Awarded with a full-tuition scholarship for four years, I was ecstatic. I remember

announcing the news to my family; it was a financial boon that couldn’t have come at a more

perfect time. I didn’t think life could get any better than it was at that moment; I was right.

Mayhem. Weeks later, I was driving to school when a speeding truck met the front of my

car. My car looked like the loser of a demolition derby; it was totaled. The doctor in the

emergency room sent me home the same day with painkillers and a pair of crutches to use for the

following month. At first, you surprised me. You took me to school, helped me get around the

house, and laid with me when I couldn’t sleep at night. Everything I had felt before meant

nothing; you were perfect, I thought.

Over. Every kiss goodnight, every cherished smile, my happiness, everything was over. It

was competition day – marching band. As always, we sat on the bus together to the practice

field. As our peers were eating, I returned to the bus to change into shorts. Hidden beneath the

clothes in your bag, your phone buzzed. I’ve never been able to control my curiosity; I had to

peek. Reading the messages between you and him, I realized what had happened. Your phone

fell to the ground; my tears followed. You were no different from the others, a liar – a cheater. I

found out in front of over eighty of my peers – hours before performing. I’ve never been more

embarrassed in my life. I hid from everyone. I wailed profusely, hoping to drown myself in tears,

so I wouldn’t have to confront the situation. I couldn’t look at you or myself; I hated us both

equally. I couldn’t forgive you. I haven’t.

Loss. Months later, in April, my fifteen-year-old brother passed away from a form of

dwarfism; it was a death we were expecting, but we never thought it’d actually happen. I was

devastated. Still grieving from losing you, I wasn’t ready for anything else. I just wanted to

graduate and leave my sorrow behind. When I left you, I lost a majority of who I was. When I

lost my brother, I lost what was left. Because we shared friends, I had no one to talk to. I

certainly couldn’t ask you either. I woke up in an empty bed, and I walked to school alone. I

wandered school hallways like a ghost – few saw me, and those who did wanted nothing to do

with me. I spent my nights lying in my bed, staring at the darkness. I was alone.

Empty. I was packed full of emotions and feelings, yet I couldn’t help but feel empty

inside. I was forced to see him – the other boy – every day. Something about him seemed

familiar to me – like I’ve heard his voice in your laughter, seen his face in your smile. I couldn’t

handle it; I couldn’t handle myself. I just wanted to die – partially to forget about what was

happening, and partially because I wanted you to hurt too. I just wanted you to feel what I was

forced to feel because of you. I didn’t have the courage to tell you how I felt, so I ran from you; I

haven’t stopped.

Year-old memories of our love dwell inside of yearbooks and old feeds of social media.

They’re hidden within the shame I feel for trusting you and the deceit you thought I’d never

notice; I hope they rot between the pages. I spent two years struggling to understand my place in

this world. You spent the same two years putting me in the place you saw fit through your

criticism, and now, I’m not sure I fit in any place. Looking back, I don’t remember what it was

that made me love you, but I know how real my love for you felt. I’ll never forgive you for

taking that from me; I’m not strong enough. I didn’t leave you because I stopped loving you; I

left you because I stopped loving myself because of you. When I kissed you for the first time,

you became a part of me. I left you because I finally realized you were the emptiness I couldn’t

get rid of.

There is a murkiness

In my soul.

An almost incandescent self-hatred,

A tapeworm

Eating away at my innocence,

Depriving me of nutrition,

Of love.

Enticing it with its fixations,

I attempt to bring it beyond my throat,

To my tongue

Where I have baited it with desire,

Hoping to wrench it from my being.

But I cannot delude it.

It knows me,

Understands me.

This seems to mean,

It's part of me.

It’s you.

6:27AM: Sleepless, alone.