Wednesday

I don’t know if I was even raised to be loved. I think I was just raised to survive. I was held but I don’t think I was held for any purpose other that being in the room and being something that has a heartbeat. I think I’m meant to be alone like this. Even with someone to give me a small slice of affection I imagine there’s a layer of soot on myself that rubs off to anyone that touches me and they are covered in my problems. And when I see them I see the soot and how I’ve stained a life again. The universe has made a repeating note to take away the only people that help me feel truly alive. Or maybe it’s the effect of being me, like some unwritten cosmic rule.  I need to just shut up and move on, as was the last one, just forget about the loss and focus on the movement of the road. Keep walking and shut up. Wake up, shut up, and do as you’re told forever.

I wish I held the words to save you forever, I wish I was your prophet, your guardian angel. I’ll kiss your bloodied forehead and I’ll hold your shaking body, kiss away the tears and pull you into the spotlight, so the stars can witness the beauty of your suffering, as I do. 

Words hold power as does the paralysis of verbal separation. When I am asked of the many tomorrows stacked on top of my heart I can’t help but bite my tongue in a visceral urge to not spell my own self mutilation. How am I to tell those youthful, hurting eyes that I myself am just as crippled by the weight of it all? I do not have the courage to speak about my own heavy blood that slogs in the morning light. 

Sometimes I wonder if I’m already dead. The phantom of myself, I don’t feel the world as easily, I slip through the corridors like a thing between realities. I am silent and my weeping is muted.