Steel.

In silence, I am steeled solid.
But then I hear your name,
& suddenly I’m in so many pieces that I’ve lost count.

I hope that some day I wake up & I’m not trying to figure it out anymore.

I hope that some day I wake up & I’m not trying to figure it out anymore.

Sometimes, when I’m lying awake at night, I can feel myself replaying everything from the start; hitting pause, rewind & play over and over again until my fingers bleed; trying to figure out at what moment everything changed. I spend hours trying to re-fit the puzzle pieces together and see if the big picture would have changed if I had done something different. The hardest part is that even if this change isn’t about me, even if there is nothing I can do, I’ll always look for a reason. When you don’t hate him, its easier to blame yourself. It’s so much easier to be given all the facts and told how they fit together than it is to have to sift through a bucket of them and figure out how it makes any sense at all. IF it makes any sense at all.

The calm part of me, scares me to death. How can I be so miserably sad one day & then spend the next two days at peace? What exactly am I at peace with? I read an article recently that said we actually CAN predict the future in terms of our feelings; that gut feelings really are a “thing”. The article said that if we are in-tune with those emotions, if we really LISTEN to our gut feelings, we know what’s coming. Is that true? Did I see this coming? When he told me loved me only A DAY before he told me he didn’t know anymore, did I know it was coming? Am I calm because part of me knows he’s going to come back because it wouldn’t make any sense if he didn’t? Or am I calm because I know the issue isn’t with me, it’s with him, and that at the end of this long, dark tunnel the light is brighter than I expected? Is this sense of calm actually a sense of hope? If so, hope for what? Hope that he will come back? Or hope that he WON’T & that that is OK?

Is it even possible that he could come back? Could I ever let him near me again? Or is there really no coming back from “I don’t love you anymore”? My God, if you only knew what I saw looking back at me when he said those words. Like he was somebody different. Like I spent 2 years holding hands with someone I couldn’t live without only to look down & see that I wasn’t holding anyone’s hand at all anymore… That apparently he COULD live without me and was already trying to.
He looked so detached.. Like someone I didn’t know. An outline of someone I could have loved before.
I remember sitting down on the wet grass, just staring out at the neighbor’s window, counting the window tiles. I couldn’t cry. I wasn’t even sure I was breathing. I felt like this is was happening AROUND me, not TO me.

I could hear myself repeating “this is just the end?”. Even now, I wake up in the middle of the night and hear myself saying “this is just the end?”. I’ve never gotten an answer. Not then & not now.

God, I hope that some day I wake up & I’m not trying to figure it out anymore.

How.

Oh how the pain sneaks up on you;
how it pulls your feet right from under you;
how it twists & transforms every “hello”
into “I don’t love you anymore,”
from the mouths of strangers.

Blackest.

Of all the darkness in the world,
that place in the back of your thoughts is the blackest.

Kiss.

Kiss me;
Please fix me.

Hands.

In case your judgement wavers:
If someone hurt you; broke your heart
Don’t let them get their hands on you again.

Half.

I can’t keep up with which person you decide to be today.
I can’t love just half of you,
because it hurts all of me.

Awake At Night

She thinks the nights where she can’t sleep are the worst. The solid mass of heart and veins beats her awake. Inside her, it can’t help but scratch at the surface, leaping from her chest, thumping to freedom.

She can feel the words she’s been pushing down start to put up a stronger fight. She can feel that heart haunting from the darkness, pushing poisoned blood through angry arteries. Left atrium. Right. Right Ventricle. Wrong.

Suddenly, staring at the ceiling becomes less of a task of counting the weathered cracks and more of a battle of wills. It’s chambers and valves taunt: Have a heart. Be merciful. Cry your heart out. Grieve.

She can feel all the things she’s been trying so hard not to say etching themselves in the ceiling: daring to be read aloud. Suddenly, the silence in the air becomes less like a hollow mass and more like a weight on her shoulders. A weight from a solid bloody heart, peeling-back her layers like its own. Endocardium. Myocardium. Pericardium. A complexity no one is ready for; an exposure that can’t be forgotten.

 

She can never sleep at night. It’s never that she’s not tired enough, or not worn out enough. She can feel it in her body that it’s ready to be released with hours of rest. But, somehow, her nerves find a way to jolt, and her heart finds a way to sink to the pit of her stomach. Taunting her: Heavy heart. Be sad. Broken heart. Lost love.

For the longest time she thought that maybe she had some kind of sleep disorder, so she started taking sleep aids, thinking that a little extra push was all she needed.

Instead, despite the help, her mind still found a way to fight past it; her nerves would still jolt, and that stubborn heart would find its way to it’s resting place. Pushing that poison through left ventricle. Right. Right atrium. Wrong.

After He left, she had thought that maybe it was that void that kept her body so unwillingly awake. That large mass haunted. Change of heart. Change your mind.

She had tried so hard to push Him from her mind, that maybe she had somehow thought that if she let her body drift off to sleep, that it meant it was drifting out of her control. Out of her control meant that whether she liked it or not, whether she thought she could handle it or not, He would find his way into her thoughts. Let him, it taunted, even now. Be heartfelt. Feel deeply.

If she let that happen, she knew she’d wake up in the morning with a deeper void than she had allowed in the beginning. And that crimson heart would hiccup laughter from a resting place between shaky lungs. I know you by heart, it would taunt. You’re memorized.

Now, many months after she’s started to fill that void fill up, she still can’t find rest.

There’s so much going on all day long; alarm clocks, rustling clothes, shuffling feet, laughter, pen on paper. At night, all that noise comes to settle.

There’s no longer anything to busy her hands with. Thud.

There’s no longer anything to busy her ears with. Thud.

Of all those thousands of people sending small talk and chatter billowing into the atmosphere, she’s the only one left.

She’s the only one feeling what she’s trying so hard not to. Thud.

She’s the only one restless. Thud.

She’s the only one fighting her biggest fear every night: being alone.

But that solid mass of beating livelihood selfishly watches her pain.

It isn’t attractive, but it’s her best friend. It’s selfishly loyal. Honest. With a whole heart.

Even still, sitting in her windowsill, she’s never felt more alone. She can feel the vibration of the window’s glass, resulting from the persistent wind’s screams, but nothing has ever felt more still.

The giant tree feet from her window is quivering, and shaking clusters of crystallized ice from its limbs. Ice has found its way onto the framing of her window, shining in all its midnight glory before the soft winter sun steals it away. Despite the noise and despite the silence, she’s never realized more how feeble we are. How disheartening, it whispers. Devastating, really.

The tricuspid valve is at the exit of the right atrium.

The pulmonary valve is at the exit of the right ventricle.

The mitral valve is at the exit of the left atrium.

The aortic valve is at the exit of the left ventricle.

Sleep is the exit from her mind.

Feet from that giant quivering tree, and behind the window decorated in shiny matted snow, sits a girl waiting for an answer to be carried through on wind. As she waits, she’ll lie awake at night and press her palms to the window, waiting for the trembling glass to lull her to sleep. As she waits, she’ll lie awake and feel the silence swallowing her up, suffocating her eyes closed. Behind those heavy lids, she’s promised a resting place; a false hope of a place where her muscles ease themselves and her mind can allow itself peace. Such a wild-hearted soul, it hisses. So pure of heart.

Just when she thought
it had forgotten about her,

It sang as she cried.

A melody of hiccupped laughter through the left tricuspid valve. Right. Right aortic valve. Wrong.

Each salted truth, a crescendo in it’s melody.
& just when she thought the song was over,
Just when she felt movement beneath her palm,
it sang on.

Cross my heart, it sings. I hope you die.

Wishful Thinking With The Worst Intentions

 

I’m my own worst enemy.
I’ll never let myself be happy.
Two steps forward, six steps back.
It’s always about them proving themselves.
& even when they do I’ll convince myself that it’s still not enough.
Nothing will ever be enough.
Two steps forward, six steps back.
I’ve been building a wall up for years.
I’ve spent more time & energy giving people reasons to leave,
than I have giving them reasons to stay.
And when few souls linger behind, I’ll spend more time convincing them otherwise,
than appreciating the solitude.
Two steps forward, six steps back.
I’ll sit alone behind my creation and wish for company.
Wishful thinking with the worst intentions.
Even if you came, I wouldn’t let you stay.
I’d push.
And fight.
And beg you to leave.
& so you would.
Two steps forward, six steps back.
Even though you left, I couldn’t stand to hear you leave.
I’d pull.
And cry.
And beg you to stay.
You’d stop & reach behind that barrier for my hand.
It would shake, & I’d curse it for being a traitor.
You’d run a solemn finger pad across my chest.
You’d stop & reach behind that barrier for my heart.
“You’ll get tired of running”, you’d say.
“& this will get tired of making you”.
Two steps forward, six steps back.
“Sir,” I’d say,
“A heart beats not for what it loves-
But for the chase for that love it will never find”.
Even though you came, I wouldn’t let you stay.
I pushed.
I fought.
And I begged you to leave.
& so you did.
Two steps forward, six steps back.

Phantom Pain

 

When the words are spoken, the tears remain as a scar;
so the pain will never be forgotten.
The writer, lost in her head, taps her pen anxiously.
The lines blur to a sea of blinding white-hot pain.
“Here,” pressing palm to chest, “is where I’ll feel it.”
The reading eyes dance across the page, “such raw emotion,” they say.
She pictures her words crawling up the back of her throat,
like angry ants pushing their way through her teeth.
Meanwhile, the writer, grown restless with avoidance, makes apologies on paper. The mother, who last night prayed for her daughter, steals away those promises under a heavy hand.
Later the writer lays awake, sleepless.
Sadly, she watches the things she shouldn’t have said creep up her walls,
dropping from the ceiling like poisoned spiders.