I Want My Headband Back

I Want My Headband Back

A Poem by Christine
"

Breaking up is hard to do.

"

I just wanted my headband back.

 

I guess you can say I’m naïve. Or you could say I was.

 

Maybe I’m not so much anymore. But I still don’t feel like I’ve learned anything. I don’t feel any wiser, older, or more mature. I feel used. I feel as if someone took all my words, turned them upside down, and shoved them back into my mouth; for safekeeping.

 

I could talk about the fight. I could repeat every word that was said verbatim, and I don’t think it would mean anything more than what I am about to say. It seems wrong when something ends, and your heart or your mind (I’m not sure which, maybe both) don’t agree. They don’t think it’s over. So they continue to ponder, and continue to feel, as if it’s still there. As if it makes a difference. As if it’s worthy of your time.

 

All those thoughts swirling through the cavities of my mind felt too rushed and too slow. It as all very confusing, and I really just wanted some tight sensation to make a tourniquet around my brain. Something to stop the thinking. I really just wanted my headband back.

 

But it wasn’t there and my mind kept turning over itself, as if there were pieces that it missed that would make the puzzle make sense. It kept reeling at the thoughts, the memories, and the lies. I think my heart was grieving the lies. The lies made my heart frustrated. Not because they were his lies, but because they were mine.

 

Because I’m a liar.

 

I lie about a lot of things. I’m not sure why. I guess it makes me seem more interesting, and I live in constant terror of being boring. I guess it helps me hide, because there are things I’m still not willing to share. But most of all, I think it’s what we all want. No one really wants to hear the truth all of the time. The truth is too straightforward and simple. Like a meth PSA, it looks right into your face and demands to be recognized. But recognizing the truth would mean we know the answers, and we like not knowing.

 

We like being kept in the dark.

 

Because if we weren’t we would know the reasons why twinkies are a sickly yellow, why we didn’t get the job, why he stopped loving the little things, or why mother drank herself to loneliness. It all seems much more appealing if the answers are complex, if they require time for us to unravel the meaning. At least, then, we are allowing time to wonder and weep over the particular knots we find in the unraveling sweater. At least we have space to lie about happiness in between.

 

 

Without the lies and the complexity, we would be devastated. The unraveling ball of yarn would coil around us like barbed wire and trap us like infants in a crib. Helpless, hopeless, and desperate. Trapped in a world where our fate is more in the hands of others than our own.

 

The lies give us power.

 

But I’m not trying to excuse myself. Even if every human ever, even Captain Planet and Mother Theresa, told lies, it wouldn’t make mine any more honest. I know my lies were wrong. But I know that my lies hurt me, more than anyone else, and his lies only hurt me.

 

His lies were sneaky.

 

They were whispered little wisps of “maybe” that tunneled in through my toes and constricted my limbs in belief, but never quite convinced my mind. They were conniving little looks, excuses, and touches that rivaled an atom bomb to the senses. And all I wanted was to forget. All I want is for things to be neat and tidy, the way they used to be.

 

All I want is my headband back.

 

I just wanted to feel that it was mine, not his. I wanted my things. But I wanted him to want them too. I wanted him to want me too. I wanted him to call. To write. To say something. To do something other than sit, with his head in his hands, to the gentle sound of a far off ukulele. I wanted his words.

 

And there was my headband.

 

On my dresser. Where he had placed it before I got home. He didn’t need to call, or write, or whisper apologies, because he had left it there. He left it for me to find. He left my headband, and all he needed to say, before he left the key to my front door. 


© 2012 Christine



Author's Note

Christine
Be honest in reviews, I want to know what you really think.

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Featured Review

There's a deep sense of sadness and thought going on in here... Like a lot of time was put into this, just thinking about it. The feeling of a certain 'knowing' runs very deep. So excellent work with that. I think it was confusing, but just so so that it was not too confusing or boring, but it kept the reader reading through it to see what it was about. Overall, great job.

Posted 4 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

Christine

4 Years Ago

Thank you. Reading through it again and again, I think your right about the confusion factor. Thanks.. read more
Admiral Kirk

4 Years Ago

You're very welcome. :D



Reviews

The content was was full of psychological questions and written in a style showing much talent. Every word connected to the next and each paragraph flowed. This is what makes a book a page turner. You show immense talent..and that is my honest review.

Posted 4 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

There's a deep sense of sadness and thought going on in here... Like a lot of time was put into this, just thinking about it. The feeling of a certain 'knowing' runs very deep. So excellent work with that. I think it was confusing, but just so so that it was not too confusing or boring, but it kept the reader reading through it to see what it was about. Overall, great job.

Posted 4 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

Christine

4 Years Ago

Thank you. Reading through it again and again, I think your right about the confusion factor. Thanks.. read more
Admiral Kirk

4 Years Ago

You're very welcome. :D

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Added on November 18, 2012
Last Updated on November 18, 2012
Tags: love, loss, truth, wit, dark humor

Author

Christine
Christine

Laramie, WY



About
I'm twenty. That's too old for childish things and too young to drink your problems into bliss. So I chose to write instead. more..

Writing