Popagandhi

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(Because I’m The Girl who wants to jump on this bandwagon)

I’m the girl who grew up a bit too quickly, too fast, too much. Who, by sixteen, had already made a habit out of having an affair on top of another affair, and felt absolutely nothing for any of them.

I’m the girl who tempted you in a stairwell, seduced you in an empty cinema, kissed you by a river, and kissed you by the beach. Who visited empty apartments with you at twilight, and got out before you had to meet your boyfriend, who got my boyfriend to pick me up from your place, then asked him if he would mind if I had you (he said no, you were pretty cute). Who lived in too many hostels with too many people, but always resented your ex girlfriend’s writings on the wall.

I’m the girl who never had to try too hard to attract drama, it came naturally for me. Who kissed you goodnight while he was an arm’s length away, somehow knowing it was goodnight-and-goodbye, yet when the time came I fought back anyway because I thought I loved you.

I’m the girl who sneaked you, you, you, and you in, as very close friends whose sudden disappearances after some months seem odd to my unsuspecting family, who must think I can’t keep “friends”.

I’m the girl you left for being too gay.

I’m the girl you worried wasn’t quite gay enough.

I’m the girl who never slept over unless I was in a relationship, yet let down her defences with you. You startled me by staring too hard while I woke up, then said, you know you could have kept me if you had never let him know about me and we were miserable all over again.

I’m the girl who shared a single bunk with you on a train, who waited for the morning with you on our longest, hottest nights in rural Southeast Asia, without electricity, without a breeze even though it was by a cliff. Who watched you sleep, and startled you as you awoke, who was always assured by your hug. I’m the girl you climbed the Angkor Wat with. Who you rushed back to the hut with right after six, so we could roll about in bed just as the electricity comes on.

I’m the girl who swam in a storm with you at Bottle Beach, who let you try to help me backflip in the sea, and snorkelled behind you as you kicked your legs into my face.

I’m the girl who squeezed your hand while they talked about boys. Who laughed when they asked you which guy you liked, and even more when they realised there was none.

I’m the girl who didn’t believe a single word you said, during, before or after, and still don’t: yet I let you hold my hand on the way to the airport. Who ran out to call you from a bakery in Darjeeling, half frozen to death by the time I started dialling, even though I didn’t really want to talk to you.

I’m the girl who forgot how to cry. Until the day I tried to leave you and it broke my heart. I’m the girl who left you then ran away with your friend of a decade and still hasn’t had the dignity to apologise for it. But you probably don’t care for it now that you have my best friend.

I’m the girl who broke your heart because somebody broke mine.

I’m the girl you said didn’t have ex-es, girlfriends, boyfriends, or lovers, but ‘episodes’: previously, upcoming, and currently showing. Who allowed your episode to run on even though you said ‘finito’.

I’m the girl who had never been sorry for anything. That is, until I made you coffee in a thermos flask, wrote 13 drafts of my apology, briefly thought about running away to Laos if you wouldn’t forgive me.

I’m the girl who desperately wants for you to be happy, now that you’re getting married, and I won’t be there to kiss you in the cloakroom before you are given away, even though I said I would.

I’m the girl they sometimes say should be the thinking person’s sex symbol. I think too often the thinking person is thinking of all the wrong things.

I’m the girl you think of when Exit Music comes on. You’re the girl I think of when High and Dry comes on.

I’m the girl who’s fired so many blanks in the dark, that the habit stuck.

I’m the girl who bursts into laughter everytime you do ‘that thing’. Who misses you when you’re asleep, whom you accuse of being so repetitive but then so are you. Whom you call ‘cheena korpet’ when I wake up, who spends an afternoon staring at photos of her Java Jazz on her cellphone, and hugs her ‘ka puang’ everytime I think of you (which is, all the time).

I’m the girl who turns 20 next month but you’ve always said I was 20 going on 45, and I feel like that’s not old enough. I’m a student, a writer, a girlfriend to my girlfriend for the second time, who never had a conscience before but now over-compensates for it.

If I am that girl, then, who am I, and who are you?