Time fires an arbalest
Year by year the pain grows the lesser
Though instead of sharp
We find the dull ache of loss
And the fading taste of the world
This destruction which once stole away years
Now lasts a long morning but still
It never fades completely
Even as every memory but the pain leaves
As if what was belonged to another me
Who has since passed away
Faded in the firelight
This is the 13th anniversary of Morgan’s death.
I’m reliving those minutes. Those mistakes. In full acceptance. I failed her in a way that I won’t fail again. So I seem like I’m cautious. Making sure we are on the same page. Reiterating thoughts to garner agreement and clarification. A friend of mine said that’s just what a Sir does. Perhaps she’s right. But I think that I must admit that this more than anything is what shaped me. Not just her death. Her murder. But also her life. Her love.
Because of her, I have bedrock proof that love is real. I know that relationships are hard. That letting things go causes damage. That failing to fight for your desires is a mistake. I know that losing someone never goes away. That you don’t heal. Instead you grow around the pain. Grow beyond it. And so appear sound. But the wound is always there.
I thought when I came out of the depression. The bleakness. When I could again feel. I thought that I was healthy. But those were first steps. And really, I won’t ever be whole. No one is. Being whole is being stagnant. Unchanging.
It’s not that I’m hopeful. It’s that I don’t want to fail to live in the love that she showed me was real. How could I dishonor her by failing to see the people around me, See their beauty, Foster their light and darkness?
I take this time. This day. To remember her.
To lament all that was lost.
To realize all that I’ve become.
From this frozen moment, I’d erase if I could.
This bloody seed crystal of the man I am.
Of the person I become tomorrow
where words go quiet beneath the dying sky
bound by tears and memories that lie
one dove to the heavens
one to the hells
no amount of searching can find
what was lost
speak clash amidst bleak tomorrow
Last time to borrow
Not worth the paper
inks run dry
taking paths furrowed deep
dull ache gives way to blurred visions
not enough for anyone
That moment in your otherwise ok life when you look up and remember what’s over the horizon and you are instantly overwhelmed. The past comes round again, no matter how much time passes, it’s always there lurking and ready to ambush you. Tarnishing your thoughts with grief and an impending sense of falling.
Today I wondered why I was feeling sad. I should be happier. Things are going ok. Then I realized, just over a month away is the 13 year anniversary of Morgan’s death.
And like that, I’m adrift.
It’s all I can do to keep myself from hyperventilating.
from losing it in front of other people
from this empty
from concerned friends
from this lump in my throat
from the need to be held
from an endless lack
from pointless drift
from a need I can’t fulfill
from an ache I can’t suppress
I miss caring for someone and being cared for in return. I miss giving an order and having carried it out. I miss the joy on my their face when I say, “Good Girl.” I miss the life. The life as I learned it. The submission and compliance. Punishment and reward. Rules made to show care, to demonstrate love, to make each moment better. Never to hold back, always to foster growth. I miss these things, but mostly I miss being loved. I miss loving someone full bore with my slightly crazy heart and being loved in return by theirs.
I miss the lifestyle because it’s the only world I’ve known where love is the most important thing. Where communication rises to the level of my need. Where such is internally enforced by the cultural norms of the lifestyle. Maybe this is my experience because I’m the common denominator, I know that others have experienced abuse, that this lifestyle draws abusers and takers.
I’m not that. I have no way to convince you. You would need to trust me. I have no real point here. I’m 15 days out and I guess I just miss my Morgan. We weren’t perfect, but we had love. I miss her. I miss who I was with her. I miss…
I recently told a friend that I anticipated that this September would be a bad one. Last year I was distracted by relationships, failed or otherwise. This year I, now, have no such distance. She said there was still time, that some relationship might start up. She was being kind, maybe a bit fearful of my state in the weeks that lead up to that dreadful anniversary. I find myself less than optimistic concerning the same thing. The possibility of anything seems so distant. And my efforts seem to not make a bit of difference. Like fighting a tiller in a storm, even though the seas seem calm. I just keep moving forward, swept along the current. Unable to find home or shore.
There was a time when I was dawn, was light, was dream. I drank and danced. I sang and fucked and balanced my life against others. And in the end it was a creature of darkness who acted as my savior. Through her love I rose from the chrysalis of seeming placid life. A false front, but one that I embraced for her. A false front that became my life when I failed to save her as I was saved by her. When she was taken by a coward who fled before me, I lost myself. I fell. I embraced the false front as if that was all I was. I ventured out only when I could breathe no more, I woke slowly from that nightmare. Something fully realized only when the coward was found and dealt with. But my Morgan is still dead. That pain will always be a part of me. Something that is brought home when a memory resurfaces or even when a book character recounts the loss of their love to murder. I’ve recounted this tale several times. I tell it each year at about this time. September 19 is the 11 year anniversary of her death.
I apologize to anyone who would love me. I have a past. I have pain. I know that life is fleeting. It makes me reckless where love is concerned. I throw myself in, because I know that this all ends. I know it all to well.
The past bears down, a blood tide churning up bones. The weight of it it squeezes me. Wrings me out, tears flowing. Suppressed here, where weakness or the perception of weakness would destroy my carefully crafted edifice. I feel like I’m flying apart, locked down. Isolation required before the inevitable crumble of will. It squeezes my heart, these days leading to anniversary. Ten years gone and I still can’t let you go.