Worth It.
(“Watching your bright blue eyes in the freeze frame.
I’ve seen them so many times, I feel like I must be your best friend…”
–U2)
I’ve been watching you. Of course I have. Does it scare you, even a little bit, that while you traipse around, unaware, your hair catching the sun’s rays as you furtively move from one area to the next, my eyes have been on you the whole time?
Do you even know?
You like to think you’re so damn smart, don’t you? That you have one up on me and everyone else in the world, that you’re some kind of stealthy spy, some protégé to Magnum PI or that character out of the latest Tom Cruise thriller. But you’re not. You’re sloppy. You’re weak. And you’re obsessed.
People like you screw up all the time.
It’s all about image, isn’t it? The image you project to those around you, the image you try to project to me…the image that you’re so sure will make me fall at your feet like the hapless romantic you’ve become. Don’t even try to deny it.
Oh, you can hide behind the shiny mantle of “older fan,” but we both know how quickly you’re reduced to jelly just at the sound of my voice. I’ve seen countless girls like you, each with their eyes glazed over, the strange sheen of misdirected passion awash in a vacant expression that on anyone else would be perceived as sheer mania.
But on you, it’s expected.
After all, it’s “healthy,” right? Expressions of lust and of devotion in a perfectly “safe” environment; a normal, completely acceptable form of stress relief. That’s what the shrinks will say. But come on. You spend hours every day trying to find me. You sell your soul and your self-worth and your respect and your pride in hopes of making me want you. You think you can have me.
You’re wrong.
What would you do if I turned you down? How would you react? Do you think you could just lock me up in some gilded cage, forcing me to sing as you see fit? Would you make me wear provocative clothing and come when you call and offer you kisses I don’t wish to give? Because those are the images I see hiding in your eyes. Those are the thoughts you keep locked in the darkest corners of your mind. You frighten me.
And yet I smile. You love that, don’t you? You love to see me happy; you want to see me happy. Because my happiness is important to you. Never mind that when I watch you rifle through my garbage and copy the sequence on my license plate, happiness is the furthest thing from what I feel. You think you own me, don’t you? You think I’m public property. And you’d give anything for a piece of me. Anything.
That’s why you rip the roses from my garden, or tuck a few blades of grass in your shoe as you leave. That’s why you make notes on what kind of food I eat, the kind of deodorant I use, what sort of magazines come to my house.
That’s why you steal my mail.
I watched you one afternoon as you crept to the mailbox and jiggled the lock with a slender wire. With eager hands you ripped open the letters and scanned the bills, and I could see you memorizing account numbers, money spent, purchases made. I had to look away.
How could I ever love someone like you?
What is it that you think I’d offer you? Security? Because there are others just like you, some of whom I’m sure would have no qualms about slitting your pretty little throat just because you lay next to me. Is it money? Because it’s amazing what money can’t buy you…whether it be a good night’s sleep or sincerity or just a few minutes free from worry. It’s equally amazing what it can buy…whether it’s drugs or sex or booze or any number of substances designed to destroy the body while emptying the soul. Is that what you want? Do you want to shine in the camera’s light, your eyes aching from the incessant flashes? Because they’ll never leave you alone. They’ll catalogue your every move until you grow to hate your own face. Do you want to hear them scream your name, to hear the eerie desperation in a thousand chorusing voices? You’ll grow to hear them in your sleep, in your dreams, when you’re scared and lonely and near tears it’s their voices you’ll hear, until you bite your pillow in frustration and take that shot of Jack just to shut them out. Is that what you want? Because you can fucking have it. You can have it all.
But you can’t have me.
I know you think I’m wrong. I know you think that if we were to meet, I’d be smitten by your charm and beauty. I’d overlook the way you used my friends and family just to get close to me. I’d ignore the nasty names you called my ex-girlfriend and pretend it isn’t the threat of another gold-digger that keeps me from finding a new companion. I would love that we have nothing in common besides me. Oh, I can hear you arguing now. You like Sting too. You love U2. You think that Garbage is really hip. But you don’t hear them like you hear me. You won’t listen to them like you listen to me. And you never, ever listen to me.
Forgive me for being cynical. Forgive me for scowling as your hands tremble because you’ve found a pair of pajamas that I balled up and tossed away this afternoon. Forgive me for wanting to sink to my knees and sob one minute and storm out the door and scream the next. I’m only human. You should know that. You’ve told enough people that. You’ve defended me to anyone with ears even though, at times, I didn’t deserve it. But forgive me if I’m not grateful. Forgive me if the price for that kind of adulation is too high.
Remember. Money can’t buy you everything.
You look up one last time at the house, and I can see you studying the upstairs window, wondering if I’m there, wondering if somewhere I’m laying in a bed, my hand down my pants, stroking my cock as I dream of you.
I only see you in nightmares.
And as you drive away in your beat-up car, the remnants of your little “scavenger hunt” tucked securely under your arm, I close my eyes and bow my head. This is the price I pay. This is the game I play. I do it all for you.
I hope it's worth it.
© 2002 ~A