Redux
Over and over, repeated re-injury of the senses.
It’s what we had.
Dressed in our despair, bonded by pain.
It’s what we shared.
We twisted and contorted, struggled further to gain control.
It’s how we fought.
Every prick of the conscience drained another abscess.
It’s how we learned.
Giving up was not an option.
It’s how we lived.
Originally posted 7/11/2018 on I Write Her
Redux
shocking upheaval delivered unexpectedly
the heartache pounded harshly inward
internal distress burnt a tortuous red
a deep cut surrounded by a million small tears
the stress widened all the wounds
anguish and heartbreak followed
the future, unending and suffering agony
sorrow and grief dictated the next steps for survival
this daedal misery mimicked a slow death
love left in an upset heap
an untidy disarray of hurt
this…
this from someone who cherished commitment
It sure wasn’t but it sure does, doesn’t it?
Nobody ever says that, that those who fear falling in love have this tendency to be more affectionate and nurturing and gentle lovers. It’s not the fear of “falling in love” that they’re actually afraid of but the fear of “being in love.” The fear of being somewhere they’ve always wanted and the fear of not being worthy enough of it.
Juansen Dizon – Philophobia
I was the golden warrior.
Found my place, made my name.
I chose you.
You were deemed worthy.
But then you pulled away.
Stayed but let me wonder.
Who am I now without you really there?
Felt shaken, unsure.
Forced me to beg.
I wasn’t sure anymore if I was desirable.
Constant questioning.
How could you do this?
I trusted you to love me whole.
Honor and love me forever.
This is how you respect me?
I let you in believing I was worth so much to you.
But in the end, only you mattered.
ouch!
nails bitten to the quick
ripped delicate cuticles
now look at that bleeding edge
what’s a nervous person to do
We were damaged early on.
Thanks, Mutti.
Years of pretense.
A lifetime of living with it.
But the truth came out.
You didn’t like me.
That part didn’t hurt.
It’s that you didn’t even want to.
I was good enough to borrow money from though.
Just not appreciated enough to give me the truth.
Family, my ass.
It took my last bit of strength to pick up
every last bit of shredded me off the floor.
Left with bloody fragments of a torn heart,
a distorted mind and a shaken psyche.
My existence, Picasso’s The Weeping Woman feel to it.
Feeling awkwardly out of place and lost in my space.
I had to recalibrate; I needed to rebuild.
Now I’m new and different, possibly improved.
A little wiser for the wear; a lot harder around the edges.
More protective of me, not so naive anymore.
Self-preservation took me to new heights.
I’m back and ready.
Don’t ever hurt me again.
Life doing its unintentional thing can hurt.
I weep, pull myself up and move on.
People’s forced recklessness do harm.
I weep inconsolably,
going deeper into my shell.
Feelings amplified in this echo chamber.
Can’t hear the external anymore.
I hide for a while,
working everything out inside.
And I emerge.
Lessons
I’ve had more than a few.
I’m paying rent to occupy a space in your heart.
It’s a dark, dank unwelcoming place.
It costs me too much.
Over and over, repeated re-injury of the senses.
It’s what we had.
Dressed in our despair, bonded by pain.
It’s what we shared.
We twisted and contorted, struggled further to gain control.
It’s how we fought.
Every prick of the conscience drained another abscess.
It’s how we learned.
Giving up was not an option.
It’s how we lived.
I Write Her 