It’s always been a hard thing for me, this feelin’ business. Talkin’ about shit like love and all that. Cuz it’s fuckin’ ridiculous. Too bright and shiny. I don’t believe in it. I think it’s bullshit. I heard somethin’ somewhere about how it’s somethin’ that can be explained scientifically. Some shit about endorphins and serotonin bein’ released in the brain and givin’ people that euphoric feelin’ they call love. Kinda takes the romance right out of it and without the romance, well…. It ain’t really love, is it?
Shit, man. It’s probably the only lie I can’t tell, when it comes down to it. Like I can’t even say the fuckin’ word. A girl like Bree just makes it harder. Problem with Bree is she got a heart that can’t stand still. Problem with me and Bree together is we just can’t keep the love between us. We gotta spread that shit around. It wouldn’t be so bad if she always found her way home, but, she don’t. She starts out bein’ curious, wonderin’ what it’d be like with that one or that other one. I probably wouldn’t care if I didn’t have to know about it, but she always gets involved, starts gettin’ ‘feelin’s’ and that means, she’s gotta leave and see if the grass really is greener on that other side.
I know she thinks she loves me, or at least she used to, and I don’t know, maybe she did. It didn’t last though. Love never does, or maybe it does but it just changes its face. Whenever me and Bree are together, I know we’re livin’ on borrowed time. She only ever left me once when I wasn’t ready for it, when I still cared. I guess I saw it comin’ but I didn’t really believe it or maybe I thought I had more control over her than I did. ‘Course, I didn’t let her know I cared. Hell, no. Why should I when I had another woman in my bed already, before the sheets were even cold? You know shit’s fucked up when your woman leaves you another woman as a consolation prize.
I coulda gone after her. Beat her ass all the way home like the redheaded stepchild she resembles with that hair of hers. Coulda showed her I ‘cared’. But, I didn’t because I knew better. Because I didn’t want to care. She didn’t love me anymore then. She was in love with someone else and far enough gone…. Well, gone like Tuesday, I guess. Gone with the wind. Guess now, it’s me who’s gone.
I know I coulda done better, probably, but a man can’t change who he is. Maybe I coulda given more fucks, maybe paid more attention to her. But the truth is, I just didn’t care enough. Just another lie on top of god knows how many’ve come before. I don’t even know why I’m thinkin’ about her now. Seems like I only do when it’s too late. Seems like I always go outta my way to fuck up her head and break her heart. Maybe it’s cuz cuttin’ it out’s not an option.
Damn her eyes for bein’ the blue in my sky
Damn her lips that are always tellin’ lies
Damn her fingers for the art they create
Damn her voice….
Damn her for bein’ an artist and my stupid ass for not knowin’ better than to get involved with one. You wanna know what’s true? What’s true is I resent it. I resent the way it draws people to her, people who get it, who are ‘creative’ artsy types themselves. Cuz every time she meets a new one, I find myself wonderin’ how long it’s gonna be before she falls for him, too, because they’re the same, because he ‘gets’ her or just because he makes such a big thing over her talent, it overwhelms her and she gets all warm and fuzzy over it and the man with the compliments.
The truth is, I always felt like we were in completely different worlds, like I was out of place when she’d start singin’, when she’d be gettin’ attention for her art. Like, me? I ain’t no artist and I got no interest in art in general. I ain’t a musician, either. Normally, I see my inked up little bitch on the back of my bike ridin’ down some dark, lonesome highway with me like that’s all we were ever meant for, like that’s all we’d ever need. But then people start fangirlin’ her, goin’ on about how good she is and how amazing her voice is. Well, I know all this shit, too, but… guess I never told her. Guess I never really paid attention to it cuz it mattered to her and not to me and I guess she didn’t matter enough.
But they start that shit, her little fan club gathers around and they start talkin’ shop, gettin’ on about their creative visions and I see how much more she’s got in common with them than me. And I don’t see us on the back of my bike anymore. I see her in some swanky New York art gallery with her work on display and rubbin’ elbows with the over privileged and their cute little glasses of wine, and those are the times it hits me, the times I know beyond any shadow of a doubt we’ll never make it, we aren’t meant for each other. That I ain’t good enough for her and any one of those boys would be a whole hell of a lot better for her than I am. And I know she deserves that, she deserves better than anything I’ve ever given her or ever could. Shit. She don’t even like horses much.
So what’s it boil down to, really? She’s a hot little Scottish girl and I’m a white trash Louisiana boy and the only thing we really got in common is our fuckin’ tattoos. And I guess we just both really love to waste time. Is it any wonder we can’t keep it together? Any wonder we keep fuckin’ each other over and leavin’ each other behind?
So, I’m dead now and maybe love really is a thing and maybe she matters a little more than she knows or I ever actually thought. Maybe now she can be free of me and this fucked up thing between us that won’t let us go. Maybe I can finally give her somethin’ she deserves and be that man I always shoulda been. Maybe I love her enough, after all, to let her go.
I’m just sorry I left without sayin’ goodbye.