Conversations about Love

“I don’t know if I’m a good person,” I whispered.

“You’re gonna want to speak up.”

I still don’t know why I chose this moment to speak my thoughts to the open air. As if the sky itself was listening, holding its breath. It was frustrating, keeping everything inside; threatening to boil my insides until I am nothing but a husk remaining. Then, I realised there were angry tears burning in the back of my eyelids. Angry, of course. To be angry was easier than to be sad. Punish yourself, bully yourself. It was easier to shut things up, easier than to sit with the deepness of whatever sadness is. To fall into that chasm was something I could not and would not do. Something I am not sure I could climb out from. Or notice I was already in there. Perhaps that’s what the anger was truly about. Why my insides raged. Get me out of here, I want to come back out. I wonder whose voice that really was. The little yellow-haired girl who shared my name and my face.

At the present moment, Cave stood in front of me. I was slumped on a rock, buried right beside the banks of a deep, murky pond. Trees enveloped ups, like they always did. A pond which had become one of our habitual talking places. Like the floor of his bathroom, or the attic space at Dad’s, or the grids behind the science blocks in school. The secretive places, that hear the whispers and protestations that were supposed to stay inside the head. Conversations explored, fears muttered, arguments teetered, emotions spilled and wiped away- but the stain never leaving- that’s what these places endured. The things you talk about which carry the weight of your world, then rejoin the drinking in your friend’s kitchen, because their parent was never home, chuck your cigarette out the loft window along with your words, head back into school with your mind back onto the lesson ahead. Am I going to see you on my way to maths? Will Mr.— ask about my attendance again? Did I look attractive enough for their eyes to follow me? You are fifteen years old. Not twenty. Why did we have to act this way? Why did they think of us like that? School, man. Hell on earth.

“I’m a shit person, I think. And I don’t know if I’ve ever realised. I think I blame a lot of people. To make up for it.”

“I know you blame some. But there are some people who do have the blame. I’m not saying that being a shit person can just be excused by another person being shitty. But I think it is like that sometimes, isn’t it?”

“I’ve been shit to people, too. So, why don’t I feel bad? Have I made them shitty?”

“I think you do feel bad, Jas. Why else would you bring it up?” Cave sighed, collapsing next to me.

“Have I been shit to you? I have, haven’t I? I don’t think I mean to do it. But at the same time, I sort of know what I’m doing, I just can’t really bring myself to feel anything about it, until like ages later? It depends though.”

“Well, it does depend doesn’t it? And to be fair to you, you had a fucking awful year, last year. Can anyone blame you for making rash decisions? You’re not actually a bad person, Jas. Things have happened that change you, I guess.”

I look at him, and wonder why he’s making sense. Why he’s on my side. But I guess that’s it. Sometimes people actually are just on your side. Whether you think you deserve them or not.

“Hm. True. Do you think you’re a good person?”


“Eh, I dunno, to be honest. I think I’m decent to people, but you always think you could be a little better don’t you? Like when you see those charity ads and think, fuck should be more grateful. You know?”


“Yeah. Yeah. Sometimes though. I don’t know if you’ll even get it, but at one point I was like fuck it. I don’t care if I’m good. I don’t care about other people. I was convinced nobody like, deserved my niceness, or proper attention. You know, I wasn’t being loyal to anybody last summer. But at the same time, like, I didn’t care, like whatever if they’re hurt? I only thought about myself, truly. S’along as they’re not hurting me? That’s happened too much. Just lost apathy. Didn’t have any feelings. I dunno. Phh. I’m not normal.”

I blew out a heavy sigh, putting my head back in my hands.

Whatever. Can barely put things into words nowadays.

“You’re the opposite of normal, to be fair.” At this point, I shove Cave, catching his smirk, as he loses his footing and almost ends up on his back, covered in mud.

“Especially when it comes to love and shit. How am I supposed to know if I actually love someone? I always feel nothing but not nothing, obviously I just..then I’ll run or leave them and god I don’t fucking KNOW, its so fucking DEPRESSING!”

“Been on your mind hasn’t it?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know any of it. Have I ever loved? Why don’t I CARE, why did that one person have to do all the things that have literally created a whole different person. I treat my boyfriend awfully somedays. I can’t understand feelings. Can’t comprehend missing them really. Always wanna be on my own. My brain ruins it for me in the end. Nobody really understands me and I get angry even though I can’t blame them, really. What if I ruined my chances at something that was true love? What if I keep myself stuck in something again, out of stupid principles? Because it’s easy? Not scary, or..or not like them before? But what if it’s not real? How do I know? How do I get better at relationship stuff? Why do I feel completely alienated compared to everyone else? Everybody has someone they truly love and everyone gets it. Why are my experiences so different? So.. hurtful? Wrong? What did I DO? What didn’t I do? Could I actually love one day? Like, I feel like it doesn’t really matter to me, I don’t fucking care. But what if I’m alone. The bad type of alone. What if I have nobody real. And it’s because I let myself be haunted by things nobody really understood. I have never been normal when it comes to love. I don’t know if that is possible. I don’t know if anyone is. Attachments. I feel like my ability to truly attach was broken years ago, like I just don’t anymore. It’s sort of easy to write this down, actually. Because things just buzz about your brain, until you wrench them down through your fingers and force them to become real and loud on your paper or screen. Then you can read it back. Then it makes sense. Then you understand. Or maybe you don’t understand. What the fuck am I talking about, huh?”

Cave stared at me. He didn’t answer me. And I didn’t need him to. Nor did I care.