Pretty Young Things (Chapter 12)
He is losing his grip.
(she shows up in his life, his apartment, his bed-and he never says no)
This keeps happening and he doesn’t stop it and even when he says ‘no’ it comes out ‘yes’
(“I just thought you’d, um, be with Serena or something.” “Nope.”)
Come in; take my heart, my mind, my mattress.
(“You know I’m here for you, whatever you need.”)
His head screams ‘she’s standing too close’ but his body hisses ‘touch her’
(and his heart rasps something faintly but he’s been ignoring it for so long it is almost easy)
And there’s a floodgate somewhere between his brain and his feelings that’s definitely busted.
(He never considered himself a talker. Declarations weren’t his thing. It should be funny how easily it changed.)
He catches himself spouting this crap,
(“You’re a really special girl, Jenny.”)
and he never comes up with that for Serena and she doesn’t seem to miss it and he’s not sure why it’s so damn easy to not shut up;
(his heart wheezes ‘Jenny’)
But he can’t hear it over the deafening silence.
He is a masochist.
(He must be. He always walks into her fire.)
He likes the burn, craves the pain, wants a little dark, needs a little shadow;
(just gonna stand there and watch me)
perky and perfect gets exhausting.
He is a sadist too.
(high off the love, drunk from the hate)
He listens to her cries for help but doesn’t act.
(just gonna stand there and hear me)
For once in his life, he’ll watch her fall down;
(struggle, claw, but submit)
and a small part of him will rejoice because he wants her to suffer for making him this way. He can’t be happy with what he has and he won’t see her happy without him.
(I’m going to tie her to the bed and set this house on fire)
She blows into his life in a hail of library books and masquerade masks, uproots his neatly structured existence
(and his sanity)
and is gone.
He simmers under the surface; the perfect gentleman,
(her Knight in Shining Armani)
smartly coiffed and soft-spoken, until the pressure releases in an eruption of ‘because’ and little black bras.
(that’s what happens when a tornado meets a volcano)
But they’re always putting each other back together so when she finally snaps
(“You two deserve each other!”)
and leaves, he doesn’t have anything to say
(because she’s right)
because he doesn’t know who to turn to
(how to do this)
when she’s not there.
He is losing it.
(about to drown, she resuscitates me, she fucking hates me, and I love it, wait)
And he walks to the edge of the abyss and drinks deeply
(greedily)
and it’s that easy
(and it bothers him but he drinks until he doesn’t mind)
and if he doesn’t tell anyone
(how he wishes she were here)
then it’s like it never happened at all
(and he wants to love this idea but it still makes him itch and sweat and it stings)
It might feel like there is a steel knife in his windpipe
(but that’s alright because I like the way it hurts)
but he’ll still fight
(while I can fight, as long as the wrong feels right)
spewing venom in these words
(“Just get out.”)
He says she’s special and she says he’s amazing
(I love the way you lie)
and all is well and good until it’s broken hearts and broken homes and broken promises and he needs someone to catch him this time
(notice, care)
And she is nowhere to be found.
Everyone is talking to him like he should be pissed. Or upset. Or something.
(But he doesn’t feel anything.)
His friend and his girlfriend in the same bed?
(He tries to get mad but he thinks the word ‘bed’ and all he can see is dress shirts and knee-high socks and he’s been humming “Supermassive Black Hole” all morning and Chuck is never going to let him live that down.)
So he remembers the last time his friend got touchy with his girlfriend and tries to muster indignation or pain-
(he doesn’t feel it now and he’s not sure he felt it then)
-but he has no desire to remodel Dan’s face with a limousine
(and his father would be dismayed to see the young Archibald shunning ‘the right thing’)
And he just doesn’t care.
(“Yes, Serena, it is you.”)
There are no tears. He does not beg this time. His relationship with Serena ends when he decides he doesn’t need another girlfriend that holds him at number two (or three, or four) on her list.
(“It only stops when you stop it.”)
He won’t watch blonde hair and legs walk away; and he doesn’t want to dial her number and he isn’t thinking about how proud she’d be.
(He holds onto the table, but his thumb taps of its own free will as if scrolling through the invisible contacts menu)
This morning is already a million miles away and he doesn’t understand how everything seemed so simple a few hours ago but then he knows simple is deceiving
(“I just, I don’t want you to get the wrong impression.” “Don’t worry I get it. You and I are friends. You love Serena.”)
And he is nothing if not a good liar.
He tells Chuck he is interested in his little black book
(when really all he wants to do is curl up and not exist for awhile)
And he buries his sorrows in women and drowns his pain in something hard and wet
(Violating the couch will be easily forgiven but Nate knows Chuck will be pissed about the Scotch.)
The more he drinks the less he understands how he got here; he sees Serena, vibrant, beautiful,
(a lie)
and not at all what he wants-
(but you lied again, now you get to watch her leave)
-that’s on the midnight train to Hudson.
(maybe you’ll forget you were ever, never here)
(“Nothing happened.”)
Does it count as a lie if you wish what you said isn’t true?
(I miss you. And I wish you were here.)