Even enchantments lose their vigor.
Of bodies touched
And minds pursued
I know little.
I’ve watched and stood
Without act or reaction
Outwardly unphased but on the inside
Floating. Dumbfounded. Grasping.
Committed on mental paper
The contract of my terms
‘Have fun.’ ‘Learn.’ ‘Come to know.’
And these I did.
Unknowing of the little anchors
And strings tied
Through the empty spaces where once
Hearty flesh and passion-hot blood
Used to flow.
I could feel the heat of it in the shower. The back of my neck was on fire even though the lukewarm water was hitting my chest. I could feel the beads drip down my body and congregate at my feet. Little collections of myself sloughed, conglomerated, and promptly washed away. I felt clean, but in this cleanliness I didn’t find the refreshing shine of the polished and refined interior underneath. More grime came through but now it was buffed and waxed and displayed for all of the world to see.
Staying up until 4:53 AM may have been a bad idea.
A dirty welcome mat, or, Rusted tin roofs.
There it is again. An old, old feeling, worn and weathered but unwelcome. A lingering, unpleasant guest of a house so hollow and torn and mangled and hardly able to hold itself. I can’t describe it fully. Its like a sharp, searing burn, right around my heart, but it creeps up my chest and through to my head and behind my eyes. Its so unbelievably heavy and choking and it makes it hard to breath or even think because all there is is the pain. And the loathing. God the loathing. To feel an absolute hate for your own being, to be disappointed in the minor flaws that make up your person. How can you sustain if you find yourself a parasite?
Existing on the sustenance of those who live full, confident lives. Those who can function and interact and smile and live without the incredible bearing of what I can only akin to hatred on their shoulders. I’m self pitying, this I can recognize.
That creeping thought. Pity. A tiering of life to those who are strong and who can recognize who is not. I know exactly what comes next: No one would really care if you were to disappear. Pity is not a bonding emotion. Pity can be done without. So, would it really be a disservice to others to simply cease?
No more pity.
No more parasitism.
God that pain. That awful, searing pain. My jaws clench and my muscle contract until I can’t lift myself and my knees surround my constricted chest and I am one with myself. But my self is wicked and burnt and I find a hollowness there that betrays all what I thought I had gathered and learned and loved. With jaws and body clamped and pressed by that unbearable weight the only place to find escape in your eyes and they well and moisten like soft plodded earth. The earth is unwilling however and you resist the tears that you know will burn just like the scalding in your chest. Resist resist resist. Please. For your pride and your wholeness and for the scrape of respect you had for yourself.
But you fail as you always have and you close your final link to the world to try and abandon it all for the comfort of a sleep you know won’t come.
I hate feeling like this. I hate the loneliness. I know there are so many things I could do to change it, but here I am, wetted and soaked by the pity.
I don’t think I am doing well.
God just let me breath and smile and feel like the happy faces I see on the street. Let me be the prickly warmth or the sun. Let me be the courageous kiss of that beautiful soul with the nutmeg eyes. Let me feel the heat and healthy fire of empathy.
Its cold in this shell, in the tattered house in the dark.