Stay

"I love him. And he knows, but probably not in the way he thinks. I love him, and this is how my story always goes. I love what I cannot have. Or, perhaps, I love what I should not have."

This is how it always goes. I love him. Mostly. And I think he loves me too. But probably not in the way I think. I love him, but he does not love me. I love him, but I can see our projected course and it’s hopeless but I love him. Or, perhaps, I love him but he cannot love me because he loves another.

I love what I cannot have. I love what I should not have.

This is how it would go. I love him. He loves me. But I am galaxies and have no edges so he slips right off. He is the shooting star blinding me tearing my darkness through with his light. We are complete without each other. But we are at home with each other because we are made of the same immaterial shimmer of this universe.

I would envelop him, swallow up his brightness until it shoots out my fingertips. I would drown him, coat him in midnight silk and keep him steady. Or, perhaps, he would slip right through the places where my fingers are laced too tight. Hasn’t anyone told you? Light refracts and skips and never stays. Or, perhaps, it is that light can never be contained, is not a thing you keep to yourself.

I love what I cannot have. Or, perhaps, I love what I should not have.

Just once. Just this once. Won’t you stay with me? I don't want you to go. I don't want you for a moment. I am galaxies and think in eternities. I love you, and my love is eternal and burns bright and constant like the stars in my makeup. You blaze through me and I love the way you light me up but can you burn forever or will you be content with me even as your light goes out?

I am the thing you should fear because I would swallow you whole. But only if you stay. And I am smarter than myself. I am smarter than consuming obsession. Go, be the shooting star in another's night sky. I can watch you from afar.

It's what I do best.

Mine or Hers?

I feel like I've stolen the life meant for someone else. That someone else happens to be one of my best friends. She's the one who sent me to camp. She's the one that introduced me to these fantastic people. She's how I met Nick.

And camp has been everything for me. Camp made me grow, birthed my confidence, has me going places I never thought possible. Camp has brought me friends I love, friends I want to hold onto and keep forever. Camp has brought me love and heartache. It found me at my lowest point and raised me up. It showed me I didn't have to be perfect, I just had to give it my all.

Now, camp has a continuing place for me but not for her. A growing space and need of my position (which I don't even feel prepared or qualified or inspired or ready to do...) but they don't need a mini-program director. She's growing too fast for them to handle. And she's trying not to be bitter but this is her home and I've taken her place somehow. The joke last year was that I was her replacement. Now the joke's gone too far.

Then there's Nick. Who's a darling and a gem and is too in touch with his feelings and self-obsessed yet so willing to sacrifice it all. And I love him a little. Or a lot. Depends on the day. He considers us both his favorite people, his girls, but I've begun to trump her in this too. She knew him first. He had a crush on her first. They're the ones predicted to end up together.

Mostly. Depends on who you ask.

But I'm the one he runs to. I'm the one who talks him through his slumps. I'm the one he turns to, is more comfortable with. I'm the late night talks, the hugs that squeeze the breathe out of you just right, the laugh that echoes in his chest. He talks of us both with fondness but turns and catches my eye and mouths "you're my favorite." I'm the one.

And I love him. And I love her. But I understand him best, or rather, I know how to cater to his emotions and get him to understand where I'm coming from. I'm willing to put in the extra work and open up even when he forgets to ask about me. Her, not so much. She will not let him in if he does not ask. She hides the keys to her secrets while I hold them out in the palm of my hand. I love her, and her words are biting and cut short and sharp across her tongue and he forgets to bring up his shield and create callouses. I love her, so I see the beating, bleeding heart behind the dagger she wields. He can only see the weapon in her hand.

With her, you know where you stand. Her weapon is plain to see, easy enough to deflect if you know her. While I approach with a crown of flowers, get close and sure and safe, and stab you in the back instead. Et tu Brute?

I love him. And he knows, but probably not in the way he thinks. I love him, and this is how my story always goes. I love what I cannot have. Or, perhaps, I love what I should not have.

I'm his favorite. He says so himself. I'm his favorite and his love is blinding and quick like the shock of lightning across the midnight veil. I'm in love with a boy who burns hotter than gasoline and I'm so tempted to strike a match and let it burn. Blow us up in the process. But I don't want to burn, don't want us to burn, don't want to catch and watch us burn out. I love him, but I want his love to smolder and keep constant. I want warmth and consistency...not destruction.

I love him. He loves me. But probably not in the way I think. He loves me more than her though. And I can't help but wonder. He created a "her" to believe in, and when she didn't live up to it he was done. Is it the same with me? Does he see me or a me that he wants to believe exists? I think he sees me. I try to be myself, as flawed and imperfect and as in need to learn as the next person. So if he can't see that, who am I to fix it?

I love camp. I love him. She loves camp. She loves him. But probably not in the way I do. They are hers and mine and ours but who owns us in the end? Who chooses us in the end? Why choose me over her? I'm secretive and chaotic and only pretend and play at having it together. She's loud and chaotic and honest about not having it together. Something between us is different. A single letter. ESFJ over ISFJ. Yet worlds apart, her and I.

Why me? Why not her? But she could win them so easy. Win him so easy. Just put down the dagger and see how he's just as self-consumed as you are! But I am a jealous fool who wants to keep him. I want him to be mine. She doesn't want him to be hers. Who knows whose he wants to be...