I built myself a home. One, two, three, four, story after story of levels to perch myself up onto this net of neuroticism. I thought it would be an easy life from this viewpoint; no one could reach me here, no one could touch me here. I would rise above it all and float away, invisible to the darkness below.
Flash. Bam. Blast. A gust of wind threatens my kingdom; a boy comes a long and shakes the foundation. He stands at the foot of the bed, miles and miles below my feet. Come down he begs. I look into his eyes, I fall in love. I push the covers off of my body, move to the edge. He stands below, tall and firm, sure of everything he says. How can he be so damn doubtless? He only knows me from afar, only knows the skewed mirage that I have allowed him to see, and yet he is unshaken in his faith.
Come down. I loosen my grip of the post, and let a toe hang off of my platform. He thinks I am as sure as he, he thinks I will float down without reserve. What he doesn’t see is the doubt, the anguish, the fear poisoning my veins. What he doesn’t know is that all of the others before him will make his job an almost impossible task. What he doesn’t know is that if I reach him, if I decide to give him what he wants, I will not stand as firm as he. I will bend, I will wave, I will fall, I will run.
What he doesn’t know is that I am climbing down, but I don’t want to. I want to hide back underneath the covers, back in my safety net. I want to fuck with no strings attached and break hearts at the first hint of love; I want to find more men to treat me like an object, tying me up and beating me down until there is nothing at all left. My plan was to eventually disappear, and he is coming in now, changing everything. I wanted to be used up and spit out until the only thing left was the slight whispered hint of a girl that used to be.
I climb down now, slowly, fearfully. He reaches his arms out, touches my leg. I let him get close enough to please his senses, but remain far enough for my protection. He says such sweet things, makes such beautiful promises, paints such a pretty picture … but I know that that is easy to do, and even easier to consume. I know that sweet things and beautiful promises and pretty pictures are one of a dozen, and I know how easily they are undone. He thinks I believe in his every word; I do not. I listen to his sermons while twirling my hair. I can tell why he was voted into this position; the years of practice have made him a pro and I am sure he is used to women turning to putty at the sound of his voice. Perfect perfect things leave his lips. But I am no fool, my soul is aching and bruised. My stomach churns when he calls me beautiful, my mind recoils when he promises me forever.
But I am still climbing down. I do it because there is a possibility that he could be my one. I do it because when I am with him, I feel safe. I do it because despite how much I hate it, I love him. I climb down because his eyes tell me things that he could never say; because of the way his hand finds its way to the small of my back while we walk down the street. I do it because of the way he kisses me gently; because of the way he digs his nails into my skin. I do it because of the dirt of his past; because the bad things he has done make me feel like I have found an equal. I climb down because of the way he looks at my naked body standing before him; because of the way he squeezes my ass. I do it because I am turned on by interesting people with fucked up stories, and he has my brain on fire. I climb down because I want to know everything about him, and he has an endless supply. I do it because he has parts of him that everyone else would consider sick and twisted, even making me a little fearful or unsure; I do it because those things mean that my sick and twisted parts have someone to compete with now.
I am still climbing down because I am climbing toward myself. He and I, cut from the very same cloth.
There is no way to know the ending of this story, and I make no promises of a future. I met a boy. It started with a short message from a reader of my blog, then text messages til 3 am. We met in person, walking and talking at a park, and exploring each others minds and bodies in his apartment. He looks at me, I look at him; as I listen to his voice, I discover that it is possible to find someone else like yourself. We do not need to explain the way our thoughts work, because we already understand it. He makes big promises, too big … but I think that he believes them, and that is the difference between him and all of the others.
I am climbing down, even though I don’t completely want to. There are a million voices screaming at me to run away as fast as I can … and I am so damn tempted to listen. But when I look into this boy’s eyes, those voices are silenced. If I run, where will I go? Back to the life that beats me down? Back to men that use me? I have to see this one through, I have to find out if this is the one I have been waiting for. My hands are still gripping the fortress I built for myself, but my heart is in his hands. This is not a fairy tale or a perfect story. This is real and this is frightening, which is how I know that the love I have for him is real … no matter how it ends.