Against the Wall

She’s not even my type. That’s the lie I tell myself when I think about writing something about this girl who takes my breath, scrambles my brain, drives me half insane. I could write a novel about Ana. Thousands of poems. Millions of words. Every one of them bleeding out from somewhere deep. But it would be garbage. Pure self-deception. Because she doesn’t love me back. And even though I know that—maybe because I know that—I want every second I can get near her. I’m an idiot.

We were a lot of things. Secret lovers. Friends. A couple. Both of us lying about being over it. One week together again and we can’t stand to be apart. Driving across Bavaria. Late-night Monkey Island 4. Tangled up on the couch in front of the TV. Just like it was. Which is the whole problem.

I’m an idiot for doing this again. For never being able to hold a grudge against her. For the way I die a little when she mentions some guy. For how she has no idea she’s the only one who can actually hurt me. And she does. Just not on purpose. That would be easier.

I hate myself for being this weak. For never saying a word when she’s in the room. For not being able to let her go. Even though she’s not my type—I keep lying about that. The blonde hair on her neck. The little red marks on her cheeks. The way her breasts look. I would’ve given anything to be closer. Always closer. But the closer I got, the more her scent wrapped around me, the more I died inside. I knew it the whole time. Didn’t stop. Nothing else mattered.

Love can be good. This was just destruction. I’m moving to Berlin trying to leave all of this behind. Trying to be clean of it. I wanted to have my head straight before I left. It didn’t work. I won’t write about her. Won’t waste another word on this thing I didn’t even fight. Can’t stand to listen to myself complain about it.

I should write something tough now. Something like: Fuck her, get drunk, get laid, let something break. Or: I’m young and horny and I’m alive—hide your daughters. Or just: Where’s the bar, let’s get absolutely wasted with the boys. But that makes the doctor happy, or some girl’s father, or my friends. Not me. Even though I want it to. I’m just a romantic. When it matters. But who cares. She’s not my type anyway. That girl.