your fingers were innocent. at least i know that. at least i’m grateful that you have the courtesy of telling me that. if only you knew just how much it means to have held your hands, to be able to have a taste of what those fingers feel like reaching the insides of my wrist… i wondered if you will still say the words that you said. the words that as of now couldn’t be taken back anymore. it has been 2 months now since that night when my brain which was the only functioning part of my alcohol-induced body scolded me; when my fingers intertwined with yours like a zipper that unzipped too soon. it said: “remember this. you might never again feel this. you might never again find this to be true. you might never again hold hands with him.” ; and i wondered why i forgave you so easily when you have so blatantly undermined me with your remarks, and of the expressions of my heart for you. maybe it was because of that. maybe because we held hands that made it all the more worthwhile to get hurt. i want to move on, but at the same time it was as if some parts of me are still on the same spot. latched. not wanting to move on because all the things that might have been kept on flashing when i close my eyes. all the nice things that a jerk like you would do, and even all the things that you might again say to hurt me. i strangely anticipated it.
this is the truth. this is the most truthful that i can be with you. this is what my heart is telling the empty spaces that is this room when a girl is sitting alone writing in her journal of an afternoon sun that still shines. if this is not the truth, then there is no honesty in this world.
2013(c) Victoria Rahardjo please do not take without my consent.