I don’t know how much I’ve learned of love, or lust or what happens in the in between, but I do know that getting lost in another broken person doesn’t make you feel whole. When you cut yourself on their shards, and still tend to their wounds, you end up feeling less than, and sometimes less than you’ve ever felt before
What keeps me awake in the pit of the night is not that I’m broken, or breaking again, but that I’m irreparable, and there is little point in anything I try. It’s no wonder I often rise in the morning and feel the weight of futility, under a dawn thats pales in comparison to dusk.
And on those days when I feel godless, and have no Universe to summon to my side, I sit for hours on my lonesome, and cry all the tears I try to hide. I recall words that belong to others and past lovers who lose their form, I learn that I’m not lonely, I am the shelter from my storm.
Sometimes, I admit, I would have preferred him to just have punched me in the face.
I know what to do with broken bones- you take care of them, you reset them and they heal. Others can see your brokeness and your bruising.
But his cruel words shattered what little confidence I had built in myself. No one sees the scattered shards all over the bathroom floor. No one seea the runny, messy glue you use to stick something that resembles you back together.
And no one sees the moments when you replay those words to yourself and you shatter all over again.
He said maybe it was just bad timing but I’m not sure if timing is ever really bad.
I love the crawl of the city, especially on a sleepy Sunday mornings, where the traffic groans along with the old buildings, and the millenials and professionals and whatever-als nativgate a space that belongs to everyone and no one in particular.
I love the bridges that cross the Liffey, uniting and dividing, and the trees that line the quays with their roots pushing through to be noticed. I love the early morning runners and the late home stumblers and the bikers wobbling and weaving in and out of harms way.
I love the red bricks and the glaring windows, the Georgian doors and the cobblestones, the tiny lanes and widest street in Europe (supposedly, once upon a time). The greys and the greens, the silvers and the odd sliver of sun that shines through.
Take me away to climb the mountains and stroll along beaches or through carpeted woods. Take me away, again and again, so I can come back as I’m a city girl who loves wandering these streets.
And while we’d lay beside each other again, many more nights over many years, I never felt seen by him again. Yet he looked at me- he watched me- naked and splayed,vulnerable and crying; drunk and high, living and dying.
Tell me what your fears are
and I’ll bury them with me.
I read that we are not afraid of love but afraid of not being loved back.
I’m afraid that with each passing year, I have become hard of heart yet I want to be soft. I want to be as soft as the flesh thats pads my sturdy bones. As soft as my eyes when they swell with tears. I want my heart to be sculpted by hands that could melt metal and break wood.
I want to be reminded that the love I give is not shameful. It is a gift.
It was beginning
To be my year.
I felt movement,
Felt like myself again,
Whoever that is.
I liked it. Her.
But then the clock
And something changed.
I lost my footsteps
In the snow.
I’ve barely slept since.