drugstore perfume

you try not to think about it. nothing good ever comes from the train of thought, there’s no point in thinking about it. so you don’t. it becomes inconsequential over time, a blip in the back of your mind; that hole in the wall that makes you wince and promise to fix it, but you won’t. you know you won’t, you can’t. there’s not enough spackle in the world to fix a dent that size. so you don’t.

but sometimes, you wonder if she notices. sometimes, you wonder if she sees it — if she sees you,  whatever you there is that exists in that void space with the boards over it. you wonder if she’s ever questioned, if she ever will question, or if she just chalks it up to personality. lord knows, you’re not soft — you can’t be, you won’t be. but around her, there’s a roundness to those edges. and that scares you. deeply.

it’s a time bomb waiting to happen, you’re sure of it — and you’re trying to find the wires. you’re trying to play your cards right, trying to keep the nails in the ply and the ply on the wall, you’re trying. but is it enough? does she know? does anyone else? will anyone else? do you know? do you know you, like she does? have you ever met the eyes of the person peering behind the blinds, the person you want to grab so badly — have you? will you ever?

she’ll drag it out of you one cold night, you’re positive. but tonight’s not that night, it can’t be. someday you’ll spill your guts but you can’t here, you won’t here. and maybe, just maybe, if you wait long enough, someday turns into never.

it’s not what you want, but someday always turns into never. you’re banking on it, waiting for it. you’re hoping to change your own mind, and hoping you’ll be able to change your mind on wanting to change your mind — on the vague little voice that says, ‘maybe someday stays. maybe someday’s next week. maybe someday’s tomorrow. maybe someday’s tonight.’

you’re hoping for a lot, as a [          ] of little faith.

but you won’t tell her.

you won’t tell her tonight.

you lay back and you try — you lay back and you hope. you lay back and you stare at your hands, at the nail beds; you lay back and you hammer the wood back into place, you place your thoughts on the shelf, you take a breath. in, out.

you tense your jaw. 

and when she asks if you’re alright, you’re fine. you’re peachy keen, because you’re supposed to be. you’re “you,” because you’re supposed to be.

you don’t stop to think about whether she can tell if you’re lying.

it doesn't matter.

it's inconsequential.