On History

I never meant to find solace in the dark sweaty bathroom stalls of best forgotten alleyway bars. I never meant to be that girl. I never should have put my faith in the dark crook of his arm as it rested around my frame. I slammed myself up against the rock of him so many times, that I stopped questioning where the bruises were coming from and I was content to stumble around in my haze of what I believed was real, so damaged and broken.

It was night, as it always seemed to be during that period of my life. I never saw the sun unless it was peeking up over the horizon telling most people that it was time to wake up, telling me it was time to buy wine. We sat outside, smoking the last of the pack of cigarettes and giving each other constant updates on the time in disbelief. Everyone else had fizzled off to sleep, make love, drive home; and the two of us sat like warriors in the army of the fucked up night children, rehashing old complaints against each other and trying to forgive. I thought I had. Until one well intentioned lie came spewing out of your mouth and I tried to believe it. Tried to make it true.

But it never was the truth, anymore than the things I said to you. And still this history of you and I, will come back to haunt me over the most bitter cup of coffee.