That Look

That Look

That look. That I'm a weirdo.
I feel it in the middle of a mundane conversation.
And it smells like a thunderstorm about to hit on a rather bright day.
Except that thunderstorm is me.

In that "I'm a weirdo" moment I feel a sudden, forceful, sock it-to my-belly-wish-I-had-a-perfect-six-pack jolt of a thought. On my end I feel a sudden thrust of regret. On my end, I think maybe on he can sense it too. Maybe he doesn't realize it yet, like his mind will adapt to his body soon. But as I sense it, smell it, taste it, it blankets me to the point I feel like I can an no longer breathe.

But then I do.
And I exhale a little bit more.
And then I want to cry, but today is a brand new day of a brand new year.
And Best Coast is playing in the background and...

and I still feel like I'm in over my head...
and I still want to cry, baby I'm crying,

Because I've recognized the feeling before, I know the secret cracks, the cruel twists and turns,
and I try my very best to manage
I'm trying
to be roses in  the rain
Because I've recognized the feeling before. It's all too familiar and worn-in. The sharp, blistery, swift, cold choke of that painfully hot, humiliating moment.
That look, fuck that look
That look that I'm flawed, imperfect, and damaged, perhaps beyond repair. That look that changes everything from that moment  on. The regret that I'm no longer what you want. And there's not a thing I can do to change that.
And I'll have to accept it.
And I know I'll have to let you go.