Left In Brooklyn

I wrote this about 4 or 5 months ago, but then never posted it.  I have since looked at it a few times, but never really had the [balls] to publish it.  I came across it tonight when I was looking through my cover letters, and decided that, now that months have passed, I could put it up without regret.  Maybe I should have posted it back in October.  Regardless, here it is.  About 5 months too late.  

You threw me away when you left me in Brooklyn.

You came to my apartment, and sat on my bed - a bed that has seen two break ups, two shattered ideals, and hundreds of tears, in two very different worlds with two very different women.  You lied, you fought, you insisted, and you begged.  You pleaded and held my hands, avoiding eye contact to the end.  You fell asleep holding me, reassuring me, while I ached with a new reality, and my heart caved within itself.

I walked from 34th street to Central Park.  It was cold and windy, and I wasn’t wearing a warm enough jacket.  I walked through mud and trees, past benches, bridges and horse drawn carriages, half frozen puddles of melted snow and dripping icicles, temporarily abandoned playgrounds and swings, swaying empty in the chilly breeze.  I climbed a rock by the southwest entrance facing Columbus Circle and nothing.  I sat on the frozen mound, stuck headphones in my ears, and closed my eyes.

I listened to my indie rock, you listed to your classic mix, your Billy Joel, Led Zeppelin, DMB with Guster hope.  I am not your Dreamgirl or your Mona Lisa.  I’m sorry if you thought I was.  I’m sorry I was unable to express it any more there than I could here, or that I didn’t react appropriately to your gestures of courtship.  While the kindness may have been looked upon with appreciation, I could not encourage such behavior.  And I was completely out of straws.  My glass was almost empty anyway.  

A mother and her two boys played on the tarmac below me.  A scruffy man in his twenties ran laps around the baseball field.  I let myself cry for about a minute, stopping before the tears absorbed the mascara and ran with it down my cheeks.  I can be strong, too.

I always found it funny when you insisted the Indigo Girls were phenomenally exceptional songwriters.  Maybe you stored your Doc Martins under your sisters bed, along with your secret identity, super hero mask, and hidden girlfriend(s).  I feel tarnished for ever having been a part of your secrets.  

I walked past the carousel - a favorite of my sisters, surrounded by tulips and daisies all summer long - now covered in water-stained brick, rusted chain fences, and fallen tree branches.  I walked past couples holding hands, drinking coffee and laughing to each other, sharing inside jokes and moments of pure love and genuine happiness.  I left the park.

I never saw you again.  I see you occasionally.  I see you all the time.  We never speak.  Our phone calls are sparse, yet meaningful.  I can’t talk to you.  If given the chance, I would still look you in the eye and tell you what you did, hoping for you to finally understand - I now embrace knowing that you never will.  I gave you time, you gave me time, and we found each other in the right times and the wrong times all over again.  I’m not sure how I will ever escape you.

Maybe I was never where my heart wanted me to be.  Maybe I always have been.  I have always been certain that every person who has come into my life has entered for a reason.  Sometimes they stay, sometimes they leave, and sometimes they don’t even leave so much as a tire mark (cue cheesy metaphor: on the pavement that is life, whoa).  And I may never share this.  Would anyone be interested in the scattered thoughts of a twenty-something girl with dreams far exceeding the limits predetermined by the life surrounding her?  Getting people to read anything I write proves difficult enough.  Let’s be honest, reader - you’re here for one of 3 reasons:

1. You don’t like me all that much, but since you are my Facebook friend and I sometimes link this to my profile, you want to follow me and see what I’m doing.  We’re all guilty of it, including myself.
2. You want me to post something juicy.  Spoiler alert: I don’t know anything juicy.  Ever.
3. You genuinely enjoy what I have to say.

My point here is this: I started this to write without limitations, then found myself doing nothing but that - limiting myself, and censoring my own thoughts, knowing who my audience was.  Sort of defeats the purpose, no?  I would be interested to see what would happen were I to send this out to the world wide inter web.

So here goes.  Nothing but unadulterated me, I suppose.  Could be fun.