My shoulders always felt
heavier when you were around. Your words pushed me down between the sidewalk cracks, and there I found the straws of my mothers overworked back – all stacked together, waiting to be blown down by the big bad. I found solace in the undertones of silence as I regaled memories from my childhood in my mind. I couldn’t find those darker places that you swore must exist inside of me. Never in your life had you ever met someone who was born to save the world. I am not afraid of being myself. I’ve always been happy with the skin that I’ve grown into, and I like the way that it feels to love myself again. I can’t fix you, but I can always hope that one day you’ll love yourself with the same forgiveness.
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Winds rage around me, as I make my way to the darkest corners of the earth. - My own clear mind. The difficult thing about sobriety is that I am forced To deal with the things I once turned a blind eye to. Now, impossible for me to separate the feeling of innate fear and the longing for undeniable intimacy, It’s been three months, eleven days, and six odd hours since I made the necessary decision to live again. When I awoke, I found myself facedown on the cold, hard tile of my own bathroom floor. I couldn’t stand. Bottles were scattered with the evidence you left behind. I’m still unsure where the Black-eye came from. Not remembering terrifies me. It reminds me that there are things in life I can’t control. Fleeting moments of simplistic normalcy help me forget that I am a shipwrecked vessel. Hours pass as I search frantically inside of my heart and soul for dry land. Other days are wasted treading zombie-like through familiar hallways forgetting where I’ve been. I am ashamed that I didn’t do the things that I tell other women to do. I am ashamed that I feel ashamed. I’m aware it wasn’t my fault, that there’s a chance I couldn’t have even stopped you sober, but there was a chance I could. I try to remind myself I’m dealing with pain In the very best way I know how, still I’ll no longer trust anyone without reason. I am the only one committed to protecting myself. How does one escape the constant flood of questions? Sincere, but every single one is a dark reminder. I can’t imagine how anyone has survived a lifetime with this feeling. I can hardly make it through the day. I tell myself that I will be ok. That I am stronger than the sickening ache in my stomach I feel every time I’m touched. I hope that one day I’ll wake up and that will be true. That somehow soon I will outrun these shadows. I sit with my forehead pressed against a cold glass window.
The airplane roars to life, carrying me 1,619 miles away from you. This is the furthest apart we’ve ever been. After our conversation this weekend - It’s also the closest. My favorite hour has always been the darkest. That’s usually the one in which you find me. I stand here, heart open, walls down, waiting for you. It’s hard to believe how close we came. How far we’ve come. The cadence of our relationship can be measured by opportunities never taken and words left unsaid. Even after all these years you struggle to look me in the eyes, afraid I might see what secrets you’re hiding. You read my poetry, trying to fit your round-peg heart into square stories of broken homes and second chances. You’re terrified that I might still love you. I’m afraid that you’ll never give me the chance to try. The truth is, that I’ve never written about you. I’ve been too afraid to let out the words that confirm the connection we have here is undeniable. That you’re in my life forevermore. She thinks you’re with her because she’s the closest thing to me that you will find down that old dirt road. Maybe she’s right. I have barricaded my heart from anyone else convinced there is still a chance for our love to unfold. When I told you that I was over you, that we would never work, when I said it was probably better we never try… I was lying. Fuck. I was lying. It was just too hard to believe how close we came. How far we’ve come. You once promised me that if you ever broke up with her you’d give us the chance that we’ve always deserved. I wonder if you remember that. If you meant it at the time. Beautiful girl, I know that no one could ever love you better. I know that my broken heart is hanging by a thread. That yours is shoved somewhere deep into her pocket. But it kills me to watch you love someone else, be hurt by them when I see how close we came. How far we’ve come. It’s in the air here. The growing stench of mediocrity and desperation. It wafts through the city like an ocean breeze tingeing, eroding the quality of life around us. This is not you, you are not this, but the wind confuses you; keeps you down. Convinced that your finest qualities have all but turned to ash, and blown away, you find other ways to feel. You’ve never been able to handle criticism, and when I find you, finally, in the guestroom of another nameless mansion, the needle is already centimeters deep in your arm. You are determined to forget the world. I am determined not to let you. You tell me the half-bath which we are occupying – as you wipe the vomit from your chin - is twice the size of any apartment you have ever rented. I believe you. Your frustrations are not wasted upon me, but mine are growing. You must be mad not to recognize the familiarity in my voice. My dreams. My fears. It is rare that I am able to connect with anyone. It is rare that you want to. But we do. I wrap you tightly in my sweater, and tell you it was only a mistake. You tell me that you will make it again. I believe this too, and I take you home anyway. We will begin the vicious cycle again tomorrow, but tonight I will hold you through it. You, sweating through my sheets. Me, crying quietly into my pillow case. Hoping a new day will bring the answers which we seek; that my love will bring you to your feet. I believe. This voice of mine is so new that sometimes I forget
What I sounded like in your silence, with no one else around. I’m a bit of a shit-giver. I am still learning to take it. You said that I should always take everything personally. That a person’s measure of success depended solely on the number of their enemies and the age of their bourbon. You were wrong. I never wanted to be the bees knees, or hips, or thighs, or any other sweet appendage that you sought so desperately to hold on to after you stripped me bare. I stood there, embarrassed, in front of you. My darkest secrets spilled messily upon your brand new Fjord recliner. “This costs more than you’re worth.” You told me. You were wrong. I’ve grown up from the dirt like a willow, winding my large roots beneath your feet. My branches have surpassed the shadows you cast over me so long ago. I am simply a woman, not some grandiose idea that you once had, tried to give away to the maker of the stars. You always thought you had the best ideas. You were wrong. A notebook rests on the top shelf in my closet.
Inside it, the last proof of anything I felt for you. My best friend says I should burn it. That it’s therapeutic. She says that if I push you out, I can let you go. Why do my fists always clench when she says that? I saw my first picture of him. Even in shades of gray, He brings new color to the world. To you. It was never in the cards for me to be around. It’s just my luck, you know, for nothing to go my way. This isn’t the first time I’ve had “almost but not quite.” I was eighteen when I met my best friend for the first time. I’d known her for three years when I finally worked up the nerve to find her and tell her I'd fallen in love with her. I found her having sex in the backseat of my car with a woman she’s dated for five years now. The maid of honor and I had a weekend full of complicated questions, stolen glances and a few too many drinks. Her heart was broken. I hoped to fix it, but physicality is an important part of healing. Her new bride found a way past the distance, and I found my way past goodbye. They say that Los Angeles doesn’t have four seasons. And I believe it, because this summer was the longest lasting time in my life. I fell for you a second time, I jumped, no, leapt into your arms. They were never open. You closed that door years ago on a hillside in Maine. Delicate.
Alive. This room is not the one I remember. I am the center of gravity. I pull it all against my chest and hold on to the things that should be let go. My eyes meet hers across the hall. And I know that I am exactly what she’s looking for. My attention seeks my friends. She is nothing that I need. I am safe in the present with them. My mind keeps crawling, a recluse, back into the shadows. They’re the only place I still know where to find you. |
Tennessee Martin
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