How I'll Push You Away
July 2008
This morning I woke up and didn’t want to get out of the bed. I rolled over and faced you. You were laying on your back, naked, and I ran my fingers through the hair on your stomach, trying to twirl them around my fingers. When I failed at that, the hairs too short, I moved to your pubic hair, gently twisting the hair around my pinky finger. You woke up and a lazy smile spread its way across your face, lips and teeth reaching towards dimples. We made love without saying a word, no good mornings and no sweet talk. I watched you move, watched your face contort and change in the yellow light that was filtering through the blinds on my window. It cast stripes along your legs, your back, your torso. I traced them with my thumb and I kissed your shoulders, your neck, tasted the sweat that formed on your skin.
After we just lay in bed, damp, warm, still tired. You put your head under my arm and on my shoulder. I worried that the sweat made my underarms smell, but you didn’t say anything about it. You put your hand on top of my breast and kissed my jaw line.
You told me that you were in love with me.
You told me that there wasn’t a thing I could do to stop this. That I couldn’t mess it up.
You told me that you were going to be here for me no matter what.
I got up and took a shower, a bit too warm, and it made me dizzy. I thought about being a tree, my feet my roots and buried in the thick dark soil of a forest in the Pacific Northwest, rain sliding down my bark, tickling me.
I didn’t tell you that you were wrong. I didn’t tell you that I was going to push you away. I didn’t tell you that it was inevitable.
I actually didn’t say anything, which is the first step.
This is how I’m going to push you away.
You are going to get closer to me, and you are going to open up to me. You are going to tell me intimate things, about your past, your old lovers, your parents. I am going to daydream about the hairs on your chin, imagine shrinking down to microscopic size and swinging on them like Tarzan. You’ll notice a look in my eyes that is faraway. You’ll mistake this for silent contemplation on the subject matter at hand. You’ll ask me what I am thinking, expecting insight, a long, thoughtful sentence floating from my mouth that will bring you new knowledge, a fresh point of view. Instead, I will say that I’m thinking about nothing. Later you will bring up what you were talking about and I’ll have no idea what is going on. I will get icy and claim that you must be remembering a conversation with someone else. You’ll think I’m being dense and I’ll think you are sleeping with someone else.
You are going to make plans with me. You’ll give me a key to your apartment and I’ll use it to snoop through your things when you are at work. I’ll walk through your rooms. I’ll look in your cabinets. I’ll run my fingers along your walls and lay in your bed, smelling the sheets, pretending to be you, be at home in your sheets, on your mattress. I’ll dig in your drawers and I’ll take a t-shirt to wear in my bed when you are not around. I’ll read the spines of your books and listen to CDs lying around. I’ll look at their covers and I’ll imagine them being given to you by an old lover, someone leaner, more attractive than me. When you mention any song, any band, I’ll get pissy. I’ll accuse you of clinging to the past and obsessing about your exs. You won’t even know what to say, and I won’t respond to logic.
You’ll find something I like, a sitcom, a movie, a band, that offends your taste. You’ll joke about it, friendly, sweetly, without an ounce of disdain in your voice. I’ll make you endure it over and over again, buying the DVDs, listening to the songs. I’ll fight with you over it’s technical quality. Each time you share your tastes with me, I’ll complain about it to spite you.
One night you’ll be too tired to sleep with me. I’ll pout while we lay side by side. I’ll be convinced you think I’m hideous. I’ll never get over it. I’ll wear more layers than necessary. You’ll find me staring in the mirror too much, primping with a frown on my face.
Tonight I fell asleep with my head on your stomach, hearing the food in your guts digesting. I kissed my way there from your lips, saying, chanting with each kiss, “I‘ll. Love. You. Forever. I‘ll. Love. You. Forever. I‘ll. Love. You. Forever.”
You believed it. I didn’t even feel guilty as the words dropped off my lips. I simply fell asleep and I dreamt about walking around on your stomach like it was the surface of the moon, each step made more intense by the weak gravity, my feet indenting your skin dramatically.
Copyright 2008 Jessa Marsh
Read Comments
Posted on 09-29-08 10:02am by Michelle
Wow,
This is so gut-wrenchingly honest, it was almost uncomfortable to read. I completely love the total self awareness she has about how she acts and why. I see so much of the things I do in this piece. The things I do, that I know are evil and annoying, but find myself doing them anyway.
Posted on 10-02-08 6:57pm by Nikita
No Subject
I also love the open honesty of this piece. So much written on love and relationships is over simplified by either emphasizing the early bliss or the bitter after effect. It is refreshing to read something a little different like this that we can relate to on a more personal level.