I like things like sunburns.
Watered-down drinks and fluttering eyelids, both victims of long conversation.
Dried flowers and wrinkles, couch indents and candles burnt almost to the end.
I like stains, pen smudges, water marks left by drinks without coasters, and permanent markers that’re actually permanent.
Residue, remnants, debris, ruins, leftovers.
I never forget anything.
I remembered to pick my sunglasses up off the coffee table, and I didn’t spill my drink, and I am far too sparing with my candles.
Sometimes, it feels like everyone around me is one large collage of humanity, and I can only spectate.
Because I never leave anything behind. Would a messy life suit me better? I’m halfway there; writing this on the corner of my bed with clothes strewn across my floor and a drink sitting coaster-less on my nightstand.
I could easily fall in, if that were me. But it’s not, because I’m still a control freak even though my room is disheveled.
My water bottle is always full, my lunch box has extras, and you can have a piece of gum.
And I love it; I love to make my friends happy, and I love to give out granola bars.
I just wish I were a little less.
I am always spilling over the edges, I am the colored pencil that escapes out of the lines, I am the overflowing, never-quiet, never-quite attempt. Not the sun or the moon, just midday.
I can’t choose a favorite season, which I used to see as a reflection of my optimism, but now I can only feel like it’s my lack of permanence. I don’t want to change my mind, so I never make it up in the first place. I love the color pink, but maybe I like green more.
If I were the sun, I could leave tans and sunburns. If I were the moon, I could be a muse. All I leave behind is a faint pencil mark, an outline. The type you erase from a posterboard when you go over it in pen.
I wish I could be pen, I wish I were permanent, but even then, I would convince myself I’m a burden. I love to give, but I hate to want. It doesn’t make sense, not really. I should be able to see both sides, but I can only swallow my insecurity and give it back to you in this column.
If I were a mess, I wouldn’t do it right. I wouldn’t be endearing with my missing homework and leaving hair ties and honesty. I’d be a wreck, a tornado, a flood. Something no one would want to pick up after, swinging like a wrecking ball.
So, I’ll stay tidy. I’ll keep remembering every last thing until my brain finally breaks, I’ll keep giving out my lunch until I starve, I’ll give you the last sip of every drink, and I’ll give you my heart in between casual questions. Maybe you’ll figure it all out, my evil plan to be loved. Maybe you’ll see me in between the lines of this confession, and my impermanence will be diluted by your memory of my torment.
