The box was always empty

At 31 I should know better, but I always fall for the trap of pain, that awfulness of a bond forged by the need and want of another. Only, as a gay man, I could never deliver to the straight women, my girlfriends, that obvious physical desire.

Perhaps I’m just hung up on that when I should instead let it go. Memories stay, and so does all that comes with it, the emotions, pains, the struggles. Life is a mountain and I have always provided my support to other climbers, yet in an instant I am always detached from the caberdines and ropes, let go by the women I followed with addiction.

Falling.

Always falling from their grasps.

You're overthinking it, over analyzing the situation.

Why do you feel so strange around him?

Let me tell you about nothing.

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

Conversation detriates, suddenly I am alone, less than, all over again.

Betrayal.

Denial.

I tell them the truth, I won’t hold back, I speak my mind.

So much passion and creativity.

These women inspire my being.

Writers, artists and activists.

Skateboarding, tennis, hiking and advocacy.

“I was only at the skatepark to go searching for guys”

I was at the skatepark with you, because it felt right. I wanted to be as good as you, but you tell me it was all a lie. I cruise on my board alone.

Everytime they acquire a lover though, I am disregarded. They deny it, all the time.

Rarely is it ever subtle, and it always happens after a few months of our heavy bonding, a road I convince myself to walk down everytime, only to be pushed into a ravine by the same person I walked with. As I fall over, the silhouette of another has taken my place.

Always.

Always.

Always.

The first time it happened, I was infatuated beyond desire for her attention, she’d laugh and we’d contort in mischievous smiles and embraces.

I was hers.

“You're the little brother I never wanted”.

It was love, as I loved her and those after, a sickness, a want.

I want to be straight, I want to be straight.

If I’m straight they would love me, if I was straight I could love them physically. Neither of us could deliver, I could only provide the supports, the bottom of the pyramid.

I was happy to be the servant pawn, picked and placed with callus needs. I was never the one reached out to, I refused to ignore her messages, addiction takes many forms.

Her crystals clattered roughly on the torn and ravaged bench outside the house. “They need to absorb the moonlight to be purified”. Porcelain skin shimmered, the sheen of moisture delicately bubbling to the surface.

She took me that night.

“Not like that, like this” gripping my hand and forcing it into herself.

What’s going on? Why are you doing this? This doesn't feel right, is this what it means to be straight?

I felt what I never wanted to feel, to touch, to see or taste. Her rocks were more important than my state of mind. Selfishness.

I hurt.

Don’t touch me, don’t touch me, DON’T TOUCH ME!

I never wanted a woman to ever touch me again.

Don’t hug me, don’t touch me, stay away, all of you.

Barrieres and distance, a noticeable field between all of them and myself.

GET AWAY!

Old habits die hard. I am who I am, but I won’t stand for these betrayals, for these people who use me.

I fell for it again, long tumbling brown hair, tattoos and freckled skin. A jersey girl from school, a classmate, a bond.

“This is a piece of dead coral, a skull candle, stained glass and an empty jar of maple syrup”. Her trinkets line up on the stand, an invisible smoke that engulfs the room with her being, a reminder of our connections.

When she met him though…

Messages not responded to. Ringing that either stops abruptly or seeps into the cosmos of nothingness. I write a letter, drop off a book, and wait by the steps.

Where are you? Why won’t you talk to me?

No answer, yet I will see them in the park, laughing, enjoying themselves. I know I have been pushed off the cliff again.

Months without response, and then out of nowhere we meet up.

“Thanks for reaching out to me first!” she texts. I throw something in the apartment out of frustration, anger and sadness.

We meet and converse, she does the one thing I have constantly told her to stop doing, the one thing that every other person knows about, the one thing I know when followed means I am being respected.

She rushes over and hugs me, “I needed to do that”. A large toothed grin, fake and selfish.

“GET OFF!” I push her away, she disregards and the conversation continues. It didn’t matter, I was ignored afterwards.

Ignored, replaced, not good enough.

Her behavior has angered everyone around her, and she moves, running away.

Don’t run away, face me, face the world, face reality. She won’t, at least not now, perhaps in the future, I can only hope.

“All you have ever done is hurt me, well I’m finished with it, I want my book back, and I’ll be coming over top drop off your stuff”.

She’s already gone, and I hadn’t removed her belongings from my home. The box sits there, waiting to be filled, to be delivered to a missing owner. I can’t mail it out, I don’t know where she has gone.

She once told me letting go of anything is natural, including a friendship, ghosting is cruel.

Outside the box sits, sealed, ready for the garbage truck. Screeching to a halt, the box is lifted and tossed inside the truck, pressed and destroyed.