A broken Heart and a bloody Hand

It’s useless. i have a broken heart that doesn't stop breaking. how does that work? break, re-break and re-break. how many little pieces do i really want? there must be hundreds. no, more. god i could weep right this minute just thinking of that bloody little mess in my chest somewhere.

i am broken. i am a broken person. not just the heart, but all of me. i’m just that. so broken that nobody can touch me. anybody who comes near me and tries touching me walks away with bloody hands.

Unlove

You must believe that in my eyes you will always remain beautiful and that I may continue to love you long after you have gone,  irrespective of response or reciprocity. But also believe that in this love needn’t be hurt, as I am discovering slowly now.

I write to ask for time, to allow me to unlearn and unlove, if not undo? Let me have time to retreat, retread and retrace those steps? Time to break down and rebuild? Time to walk backwards to find that fork in the road where we went so wrong and then, take the other path?

Give me time to extend my arms towards you, ready and willing to accept and embrace the us we must become now; the us we must grow into. But will you give me this and still find the courage to hold my hand through it all? There are no promises, no black and white. Only a bright searing beauty that is at once punishment and reward. This is truth.

In exchange, take from me all you want. Leave all you care nothing for and forget everything you have known to be true of  me before right now.  It was hope, you liked to think, that you saw in the eyes of the boy that looked back at you from behind a pile of memory inside your heart.

In this renewed freedom let me show you what you once saw. For one last time, let me show you who I am.

I dreamed of you last night.

I dreamed of you last night.

I dreamed I went to a wedding- yours probably, and saw you there. You were dressed in a beautiful red dress. Your hair was unusually wavy and you had on bright lipstick. I know, it’s so unlike you.

I don’t remember coming into the reception, but I remember leaving. I took one last look at where you were sitting. You finally saw me and looked uncertain, confused and for a moment, even afraid. As if I were there to ruin things for you…

When we made eye contact I mouthed the word, ‘congratulations’. Your worried face broke into small smile. One that conveyed relief and perhaps, even a hint of sadness. But maybe I imagined that part. Then, I turned around and walked away.

This morning, I woke remembering the dream so very vividly. I looked around my house and saw all those pictures of you and I together. Those beautiful photographs that I display like trophies. Maybe as evidence that there was an ‘us’ at one point. That, you did love me- I didn’t imagine it. Anyone looking at those pictures could see clear as day, that there was love here. Proof, that you had existed in my life at one time, even though today there is not a trace of you anywhere. Not so much as a strand of hair.

For me, imagination and desire are very close.

Fuck Love

“Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn’t it?

It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armour, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life…

You give them a piece of you. They didn’t ask for it.

They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn’t your own anymore.

Love takes hostages.

It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like ‘maybe we should be just friends’ turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind.

It’s a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain.

"I hate love.”


Rose Walker in Neil Gaima's Sandman