Trying to fill the hole in me.

I’m fifteen, sitting at a lunch table, the smell of bleach and cleaning chemicals permeates the air, covered over with the smell of various drinks from Dunkin’ Donuts. I have my nose in a book, sitting in close proximity to people I only know because I need someone to sit near to feel less alone. Most of my life has been spent searching for ways to find companionship, superficial or otherwise. Ever since I found out what it was like to have someone else to care for besides yourself, I felt like I couldn’t be alone. I had no one.
These girls dressed in hot topic clothes, with dark dyed black hair, jelly bracelets, spikes, dark lipstick, etc. I remember they were talking about how cute they thought the lead singer of HIM was with his “beautiful eyes, that could stare straight into your soul”. I tuned them out, went back to my book.
“Oh my god, look who’s coming over here.”
“Why wont he just leave us alone?”
“Cuz, he thinks he’s cool shit, you know?”
“Shh, don’t let him hear you.”
The boy invited himself into their circle, and joined their conversation, talking about bands he’s seen and inviting them to one of his shows. They humored him, “Oh, you like Taking Back Sunday? I love them!”,”Did you hear track number 14? It makes me cry everytime.”,”Oh fuck yea! I’d love to see you play a show! Maybe we can hang out after.” I kept reading my book.
“Hey there.”
I looked up, a bit startled by the voice directed at me. “Hello?”
“Hi, I’m Justin.” He sat down on the bench directly to my left. He was smiling, dark hair hung in front of face. I remember that I couldn’t decide if I thought he was cute. He had clear skin, nice eyes, but something about his face was weird. Perhaps I instinctively judging his facial symmetry. I read somewhere that people symmetric features are subconsciously found more attractive than people with asymmetrical features.
“Hi. I’m Tobyn” I looked back at my book.
“Do you like emo music?”
“Emo music?”
“Yea, my band plays emo, do you like that kind of music?”
“I wouldn’t know, I’ve never heard it.”
“Well I’ll bring in a mix tomorrow.”
“Okay?”
“See you.”
I kept looking at my book.
“You shouldn’t see him. He’s weird.”
“Okay” I had read the same sentence five times. The bell rang for A period to start.
By C period the next day I was listening to an 18 track mix “first half is alternative-emo and the last half is real emo” and having the same indecision that I felt about his face. Half of me loved listening to the distraught pining of a boy who had loved and not received it in return, listening to the verbalization of someone having their heart ripped out. I had a weakness for their words, the longing in myself had subsided temporarily but every once in awhile I could feel it pulling back up, climbing up my heartstrings and jutting out through my throat. I missed him. The other half of me wondered how anyone could listen to this crap. I guessed it was like beer. You had to build up a tolerance before you could really appreciate it. “It’s an acquired taste.” I came to find out that usually signifies crap that other people know is crap but try to get you to like it anyways. They’ve already tortured themselves to the point of tolerance so that they think they’re cool. Now they need to convince someone else to do it so they’re not alone.

“You’re a touch overrated,you’re a lush and I hate it but these grass stains on my knees they won’t mean a thing”

A week later Justin and I were out on a picnic table. He was flicking his tongue in and out of my mouth, his lips open limply, like a hyperactive snake inside of the mouth of a death fish. At least his breath was minty. I let him slip a hand up my shirt. After an hour we were walking hand in hand through a park, he was talking about a show, some song he had written and brooding. I noticed, the “emo” didn’t stop with the music, it flowed into his life. He was an over reactive boy wrought with emotion, his body decaying with despair, his heart wrenched in a vice, unable to feel, yet struggling, desperate to give me his love, becoming too attached too quick like love was just a line in the song he was living and he only had three minutes to love and be left and sing the sorrows of his soul. I looked at the trees and wondered why I still felt empty.

“And all I need to know is that I’m something you’ll be missing”

On another day I was sitting in that same park alone, with my headphones on and a fleece to protect myself from the chilly late September air. I thought about my past lover. Why did I still feel empty? Why was it not enough to feel his hands on me, his warmth against me, to listen to him talk? His hands are not as rough as yours, never having needed to really work. His voice is not as soothing as yours, self centered and incoherent. And his warmth is irrelevant because his soul never touches mine, we may be close physically but I feel as though we’re in different worlds.

“The truth is you could slit my throat and with my one last gasping breath I’d apologize for bleeding on your shirt.”

I’m still trying to fill this hole you left in me.