I have been trying to write for over an hour. For me, that’s a long time. Usually 10-15 minutes and an idea or seed forms.
All I can think about is something I already wrote. Just this mantra, over and over
“This is a broken world.
But You are not broken.”
I may be broke. I may be damaged. But this world has not broken me.
I find this repeating in my head often lately. I find it’s more true today than when I wrote it. It’s like past me was reaching out to future me with a truth that I needed.
This IS a broken world
But I am NOT broken
Times ticking down
Months fade to days
Wondering what’s next
Daring to hope
Waiting for the step
Paths branching out
Shadows dance behind closed doors
Each peel of laughter
A sounding of the gulf
between what was and is
That yawning pit beneath my feat
Blood slow seeping
What was will never be
The past stretches behind
A shackle to what was
Letting go of what was lost
The allure of what we were
Locked behind doors
Waiting patiently to be free
Into dreams of paths not taken
Choices that can’t be unmade
And the thin slivers of light
That make it past the fog
I fear these things I feel
For when I felt them before
They preceded the fall
The point where my emotions
My desires cause them to pull back
The point where all that could have
Came crashing down
Self imposed barriers
Last bastions of sanity
Last soldiers holding the line
Scraping out the lining of bags long closed
Opening doors nailed shut
Remember the pieces that didn’t fit the narrative of self
Remember the fights
Remember being young
Remember being stupid
Remember walking in front of speeding vehicles with a glib phrase and the secret desire to die
Remembering the unkind words and the immediate regret and the silence that followed
two people hurting and hurting each other to feel human for a few minutes before they went back to drowning separately
Remembering trying to be the hero for unheroic reasons
To rescue for the reward instead of to defend this battered soul of youth
Remembering days of loneliness and ache masked behind moments of epiphany
The long slow climb out of oblivion
Out of the things done and not done
out of the pits of what have I done
And the tainted desire for a little more
And the bitter poison fruit of vengeance
In whose seeds bore the sweetness of peace
Trying to save everyone because I could not save her
Waking paranoia because a moments inattention caused a lifetime of pain
There are lifetimes within lifetimes and deaths within deaths. Sometimes change is not enough and what was must be allowed to fade
If I could save her, of course I would, of course. It’s easy to say, discounting all the years past that point. Discounting all the changes I made to be a better person.
Of course, I’d go, I’d be there and that would make the difference.
If I could save her I would.
If I could make a different choice
And accept that it means that the man I am now would be annihilated.
All of those experiences that turned me, minute by minute would be destroyed as well.
Of course, I’d save her. Of course.
Knowing how it happened, knowing it all.
Of course, I’d save her. Of course.
And accept that saving her, means dying in her stead. I’d still be breathing but the man I am now would never be. The love I’ve experienced, the people I’ve met, the family I’ve connected with, the goddess of my heart. It all gets snuffed out, turned on the wheel of a choice.
Of course I’d save her
this seemed appropriate: More for the sentiment of not being who you were
there is a poem I wrote more than a year ago. Something that was for someone. An unrequited love who was intimate and sharing and all the great stuff. But only on her terms. Only when she needed me. And only as a ‘friend’. No this is not a ‘nice guy’ or a friend zone post. We were more than friends. More intimate than friends. But by calling us friends she got to minimize what we were and make it easier for her to treat me as disposable, I think, anyway. I never really understood the point of lying to yourself about important things. I wrote this and she was not interested in hearing it. So it sat on a shelf. Really a text file on my phone until I thought of the perfect last line today.
It was all about how I loved her and wanted her in my life, how I saw specific things about her and about us and all that jazz. But really, i was just a toy to her. Or I don’t know what. But it wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t good.
But I’m not sharing the poem.
Instead, I’m just sharing the last line. Because the last line says it all.
I love you
beyond your desire
to love me back