Don’t Love A Girl Who Knows

Love a girl who is oblivious. Pick her out of the oblivious, bland crowds and make her smile. Make her laugh. That’s all she wants. Touch her softly, tell her she’s beautiful. That’s all she needs. She doesn’t know.
Take her hand and tug her into a life of blurry happiness. Sleep next to her every night, wake up to her every morning. Tell her she’s pretty when she twirls in that black Sears dress that cost too much and smells like polyester and scratches when you grab at her waist. Don’t say anything when the drops of water threaten to bubble over her cheeks when the number on the scale is too high. Lay her down softly after quiet evenings of cheap wine. Watch her sleep, shadows blending with mascara under her eyes. Suppress the sighs when she won’t stop talking. She never stops talking. And that black dress doesn’t fit anymore; it bunches at the waist. You still don’t say anything but she sees it in your eyes.

Finally she does stop talking. So do you. You stop touching. The days and nights fade into a fog of Advil and clenched teeth. Sometimes in the dark you reach for her. You want to hold her. Because you love her. You did love her. But she shrinks from your touch and you know she feels the overwhelming nausea of oblivion.

It sucks. But it doesn’t hurt. Its only numbness, gentle in its quietness.

The girl who knows is anything but soft.

She’s reckless and she’s stubborn and she’s so beautiful it rips your heart out. So beautiful it hurts.

You meet her at something pretentious. An art opening, a poetry reading. She’s like that; always looking for the next enlightenment. She knows a lot. At the foot of her bed is an assortment of books; romances, biographies. She knows more than you. She watches documentaries in the middle of the night and they make her cry and rant and the next day she’s a vegan for three hours until you dangle a taco in front of her. She’s terrifying sometimes.

The second she met you, she saw your weak points. She knows your father wanted you to go to law school and that Brad Watkins made you cry during history class when you were five. In an argument she screams. She spits fire and knives and wounds you so bad that you could never look at her again. But she says sorry and kisses your neck right where she knows you can’t fight and you crumble into a trembling pile of needy hands and hungry lips.

Then suddenly you’re in love with her. Your ribs ache when she’s not there, your fingers curl and your spine throbs. Your lungs shrivel and you don’t only want her anymore; you need her.

But she knows. She knows that life is short, so short. She doesn’t waste her time so the first time you disappoint her, she vanishes. After a few hours, she’s back, but not quite as close as she was before. And then after every argument she’s a little more gone, a little further, until one day she’s packing her bags and you want to cry but she’s not crying and its like history class all over again but it’s not some douchey five year old breaking you, it’s a beautiful girl that you love and you want and who makes you feel alive.

But she packs up that stupid ironically cool rusty car and kisses you on the cheek and rides off into the sunset.

The girl who knows can be her own happy ending.

The girl who knows doesn’t need you.

So as you fall miserably into a cold bed to lay next to a cold woman on a cold night; thank god you didn’t meet the girl who knew.

That girl is sitting in some café in Europe right now or lounging on a beach in the tropics. She doesn’t give a damn about you. She would give even less damns about you if she knew you. She’s happy and she’s alive and you’re attempting to cuddle a piece of stone that is shaped like someone who used to love you.

You didn’t meet her. You escaped. The only thing worse than not loving this girl is loving her and then trying to love someone else. TC mark

featured image – Flickr / Elisabeth Rose

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