December 19, 2002
Conspicuous
My own words are haunting my mind.
"You don't want to be weak like I am. You don't want me to know."
My response. My own words, pushed out of my mouth and onto his sleeve, poisoning the car and thus my mind. He fought back, argued desperately and held me tighter and seemed almost to rock me like a child.
But it's true. He can't argue against the truth, or his own fear.
Earlier. We're driving about, and he is singing along, like he usually is, making faces at me as he does so. And, like I usually do, I am overwhelmed by this feeling of amazing love and adoration. And, because I just am the way I am, I tell him.
"I can't see how anyone couldn't see what a wonderful person you are."
"I'm afraid that I won't live up to your expectations of me."
"I don't have expectations."
It commences. Mike tries to explain that things could change, that our relationship is new, that he isn't perfect. That soon I'll stop overlooking things, that the world isn't perfect.
Am I looking through his argument or sidestepping it?
Parked outside of Kelsi's house, I fall to pieces, and he holds me and seemingly lies to me. He tells me that he loves me, and that isn't going to change, but the whole point of this is that he is afraid that it will, and he can't lie to me and say that it won't. He can't lie about that. He doesn't know for himself, let alone knowing for me.
"I look at you and I see all these wonderful things, but I almost don't want to say them."
Don't you, dear? Then you'd be at my mercy, as I am so often at yours. Then you'd be vulnerable, as I have found a comfortable state of. I can see that you love me in your eyes, I can see it when you just look at me and laugh, I can see it when we're making dinner at ten or one or three, I can see it.
Or are you afraid that by saying it outloud you cheapen it, you make it disappear in a cloud of transitory word? Are you afraid I'm lying you, cheating you, deceiving you?
I'm just Jillian. I told you I was a stupid girl, and you didn't believe me.
I'm not going to open up if it kills me, honey. The salt from my tears closed up last night's wound, mostly self inflicted. Maybe I misunderstand you, maybe I'm misunderstood.
You know I'm at your feet. It's time I wasn't so conspicuous.
astera at 4:56 p.m.