It Hurts (Coming of Age)

I don't think you understand. I care about you. I wouldn't be here right now if I didn't, and if I wasn't here, then it would hurt more. I couldn't do that. Instead, I'll sit and hate myself for the pain that's so apparent on your face, so blatantly obvious in your eyes.

You're crying and I wish I could do something to make it better, but it's my fault and I can't. Every salty drop making its silent journey into oblivion may as well be dropping into an open wound in my soul. I want to retch, or tear out my beating heart and thrust the pumping organ into the sky whilst screaming to the world that the hurt I have caused is but a fraction of the hurt I feel. I'm sweaty, cold and clammy, and my stomach has begun a strenuous acrobatics course of which I have not approved. It is as though my body itself has taken careful note of what I have done and is now revolting in horror and disgust. But not my eyes. Your cheeks shimmer and glisten with still-falling tears. My face is dry.

I open my mouth and can feel my vocal chords flexing and the words that I'm forming are supposed to explain why I'm not crying. Somehow, someway, they're supposed to convey weeks of angst and sleepless nights. Nights where, alone and in bed, I cried for the knowledge that this day would come; I cried because I knew that I had to do it. And I cried because I knew you would cry. You would cry and I would watch, wishing to the highest realms of heaven that I had could have just one short moment of tears more so that you can know that I care. But heaven is unmerciful today and though I try to explain all this in words, the cotton in my mouth and the fog in my brain muddle my speaking beyond recognition.

Ironically, I am reminded of where this all began. Then too, my English speaking skills had deserted me, just as I was flushed and perspiring and about to ask you to begin this journey. The question was easy enough, but somehow I managed to stumble nervously on the two syllable words anyway. You were gracious as I blundered vocally about, but your friends were close-by and impatient and quickly prodded me to finish. Not one to disappoint, I summoned all of my remaining courage and asked you to be my girlfriend. I still remember the answer you gave, and I'm sure you do too: “In a heartbeat,” you said.

I hope you don't think I have dropped you in as quick a heartbeat. For months now, I have seen this looming future, but I avoided looking it in the eye. You thought I was perfect, and you were happy with this fantasy. I forgot your birthday and ignored you at Christmas but you hardly batted an eye. How could I tell you that I didn't think we would make it as a couple? I could not be as perfect as you made me out to be. I wanted to be; I wanted to be everything you ever dreamed of. But I'm not and I couldn't be.

It has gotten to the point where I can no longer delay. Time would only solidify your belief in me, your belief in us. I don't believe in these things any more. To continue on with things as they were before would be to live a lie and I cannot do that. It would hurt more to know that I pretended things were fine when they weren't. It would hurt more if I allowed you to grow closer to me every day only to break up with you. It had to be faced sooner or later, and sooner hurts less than later. It still hurts, but it would be worse tomorrow.

And now you've run out of tears. I can tell that you wish you could still be sobbing but you can't because the initial shock has worn off and left you with nothing but a dull, throbbing ache. The bench I'm sitting on is suddenly very cold through the seat of my jeans and the air about my head hangs with a cool, crisp chill. You're straightening up, and I know you're about to tell me that you're going to leave. I wish you would say something. I want to wish that you would say that you knew this was coming, that you understand, but I'd settle even for shouting angry words accompanied by finger pointing. Instead, you say nothing. You're going to leave.

When I turn to part ways, I tell you one more time: “I'm sorry.” You respond with a wave of the hand and a face that hints at the potential recurrence of tears. So I leave, more for your sake then mine. I want to stay and try again to explain what I'm sorry for. That I'm sorry for beginning something that would end in tears. That I'm sorry I wasn't perfect. That I'm sorry for hurting you.

Please, understand, I know it hurts.

It hurts me too.