Tonight I write about a real boy.
My, I hear you say, How Scandalous.
You came with new music, so I listened to you.
You’ve ruined the Blues for me. Now everytime I want to hear a guitar I grow sick to think of the few hours we spent in the padded room tucked away in the senior boys hostel, with you and three senior guys on guitars, one on the drums, all high as fuck- and then there was me.
Your electric sang, and so did I. For the first time, my voice felt real, like it was at home, because I can’t sing pop – my throat can only cry.
I catch myself listening to a song and I remember it was the last song the F16s played at the end of the second day of the music festival, you lead me into the crowd with your palm at the square of my back, lightly leading me on, and you had one arm around my shoulder, my arm was around your waist and we shared a beer with alternate sips. When the beer was done you left only to come back with another girl fifteen minutes later so I look at you with squinted eyes until you see them and turn around.
here we are nearly a month later, and with our arms around each others waists, carrying each other to the bus where us first years pile on, your head buried sideways in my shoulder. its too dark to see where we’re going but the fifth year incharge of transport collects us along with other drunk 18 year olds and we sit ourselves down two adjoining seats. you’ve got your head sticking out of the window, puking in bursts. i try and open the second window pane, but my hands are shaking. I’m too tired myself from puking continuously through the night.
S is sitting on my lap and the three of us listen to the music you play on my phone, our heads smashed into another. i don’t like you – i like your vibe, you see.
just the other day I was explaining to S on the steps next to the stage on the field that I like you – I like your style and the way your hand moves when you play the guitar and how you looked up with your eyes closed and played and played and played.
When we got back to campus you told us to meet you at the field and so we did. S and I saw you hobble in your jumper and we sat listening to music till I was almost faint from my stomach hurting and so at the sound of the mu’addhin calling at 5:30, leaving you and S as you were, snuggled into each others arms in the fucking cold.
You see, she clung onto you and you onto her, but you talked to me.
That’s all I ever wanted and that’s what I got.
Later on another set of stairs, the one in the girls’ hostel, S tells me – you tried to kiss her but she pushed you away. She felt she had to tell me, because I had told her I liked you, but I couldn’t feel happier – that you liked her.
I got her to believe me, that I didn’t care – in the end I value my fast friendship with her more than I any small possible romance I would have had with you and very honestly, I didn’t have to lie.
I don’t like you – I just like your vibe.
Next year, when you play on the stage I will be there, singing with you and that’s all I could ever want. You might not even be there – you’re missing too many classes this trimester for you to make it to the next.
It’s hard – I haven’t been able to work in days because my head sees no point, and while S was sat there cuddled into your left side and I was much farther away on your right, you had turned to me and said “we’re artists – what the fuck are we doing here?”
You look up and point at the orange sky and the shimmering stars and say this is all you need.
I value riches, I’m not as brave as you are, to give up on materialism for the only drug you need. You had pulled out a small white paper wrapping of soaked weed and another of dry cigarettes. You’re addicted – I sat there inhaling the wisps that came from your burning intoxicants.
when i see you the next night you tell me that you two stayed till dawn – i say i hated to but i hat to go before I full-on passed out from the pain in my head – and you laugh and say that before we had arrived at the field you were half asleep on the bed yourself, but you came because music, you know-I’d do anything for it.
I can escape in you and forget you as and when I need to – I’m glad you feel for S because I would just make you hate me.
I love law school more – my books more, my marks more, my academic competition more, my elitism more, my public facade more, my debate groups more, the respect I get when fifth-years-say-my-project-can-very-well-be-published-in-a-proper-legal-journal more.