I hate feeling sad about things I can’t change. It seems a waste of pain to spend it wondering on what could have been. To spend precious time wallowing and crying. Yet, some nights my mind wanders to those who were but never was. Who said yes, but never touched. It’s impossible to know what could have been and yet my heart dwells on what was in the futile hope of discerning meaning. And in discerning meaning perhaps find a way back there. It’s a foolish heart I have. To hold onto love after the storm of it is past. But perhaps being this foolish person is just who I am. Perhaps, I have never learned to go lightly, and perhaps that’s ok. But it still hurts. I remember them. I remember what I felt. And what I still feel. Me and my foolish heart.
Slip, slip, slip
Knives embedding into flesh
Hearts blood flows thick
Death by slow inches
In the shade of what was
I want to fill my head with noise
Just a cacophony of sound so I don’t have to think
Just a minute to stop
A mask for pain
Something to keep my eyes clear
No blurry vision
No cloudy pictures
Feeling alone feels like giving up
Get to know your own company they say
But you can’t turn and share a book with yourself
Can’t listen to a particular piece of music
Can’t sing a silly song you made up on the spot
Maybe I’ll be good at this on some future tomorrow
But I doubt it
I want too much
I want all
I’ve been the possible
I’ve seen the chances
How can I go back to the alone?
I’ve come too far to accept that
I still love every one I have ever loved. I now say I care instead of I love. But this is just a safeguard. A check to maintain the status qo. It is merely that the pain of those lost to me is piled on top of the mountain of pain that I live upon. And each new pain begins to spin out, to cover what came before, in a thin layer that is endurable. How can I expect to find someone who will love me if I cannot let go my pain. Am I getting better or merely becoming better at deluding myself. So many nights and days I don’t want sex, I just want to be held. But, I’ll term it as sex because that is seemingly more socially acceptable than to admit to this weakness. This need for connection.
That is a male problem. We’re not allowed to seem weak. I can get away with crying in public, with being emotional and many other things because I am seen as strong. Unassailable, but vulnerability, that is too far. And truthfully I don’t care what others think, but social mores make things difficult. This is all cold detachment. An effort to bring myself back under control as, as I write this, tears stream down my face. So overcome am I that tears are my only outlet. I want my Morgan back. I want to hold Eric one last time. I want what cannot be.
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.