For You

If I can just be social for the next three years, I can get my degree and then go live in my cabin in the middle of the woods.  And I'll never make another social faux pas or ruin another friendship again.  I'll write, and I'll run into the city (in disguise) to get my fill of the hustle and bustle and midsummer humidity I once so loved.  I'll answer my fan mail and sometimes see the people who matter, the ones that still care, the few I managed not to alienate.  There aren't many.  There will be no more arguments, no more pressure, no more personal conversations, in your face, when I make everything worse or let someone down.  I'll answer only to myself (and a publisher).  And I won't ever have to hear that tone in your voice again, the one that says I've failed, tells me how I've hurt you, recounts every one of my missteps.  The phone will never ring and you, you will never be on the other end of the line, waiting for me to redeem myself.  I'll live alone - perhaps a possum and some mix tapes - and I'll live without fear.  I won't suffer lose or pain, because I love to lose myself and I'll never again be near the people I hurt, unable to hurt myself be reliving their pain.  I'll remove myself to save them, to save you, mostly to save myself, because I'm selfish and cold and what have I done?  I won't ever see your face again, which should count as punishment enough for me, for all I've done.  I'll spend a lifetime in nothing, which is better than despair.  Better than the look on your face when I said, "I'm sorry," and all you heard was goodbye.