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BP

you're never gone. why can't you fucking leave?
I want so bad to be free of your memory. I don't want to keep thinking about you, but I can't help it. It's not because I miss you. Not because I still care. I don't. I'm cold as a fall morning for you. Void of feeling. Yet you still have the ability to have my heart in a choke hold. You seep back in when i reveal my cracks. And you will make me crumble. You confound me. Why do you hold this power over me, two years after? Why did I have to ever meet you. Why did I subject myself to you, or was it to me? to my weakness, to my faults, my love. My goddamned bleeding heart. You hypnotized me, moth to bright obscuring light. debilitating. You found me when I was young. Soft and shape-able. you held firm, until your fingerprints were printed on my flesh, impressed upon me permanently. And when I finally left you I hardened my skin, became rigid baked clay. But I didn't think to smooth your marks away, and now I am left with them. And I want so much to just sand my edges down, but I'm afraid I will be reduced to dust, because you run so deep I can't even find the bottom of you. And now I must find a way to rehydrate my skin and smooth out your wrinkles once and for all. And this is where I am lost for where to begin. I open up the wounds, talk, write, share, in a hope it will disinfect and stitch up with string that leave no scars. But there is no end to you. And you are so enweaved with my brain synapse highways that I will always stumble across you, trip the switch to bring it all crawling back. Like a zombie, hungry for me. emotions dead yet undead, unwilling to ever give up.
What did I do wrong?

Comments

BlackRabbit said…
You did nothing wrong. Some people leave us with permanent scars. That, I can't deny. We all suffer from these things. I suffer, as well, and have the deepest empathy for you.
If knowing that helps, I'm glad.
But, in the real world, I know it doesn't mean a goddam thing. I'm sorry about that.
I read your posts. In many ways, we seem the same. In many ways, we are different. I bounce my feeling off what you write. Maybe you do the same with mine; I don't know.
Hang in ther, my dear girl. Writing does help some. But, you already know that.
All the best, Andrea
October 10, 2011 at 3:25 AM
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