It took six years and ten days to let myself fall apart. Following you home in the car, wondering simultaneously if I’d lose you on the vintage green Honda in some horrific crash, or, if it was all over as soon as the flight from Cozumel touched ground. Truth be told, it ended the day you tried accosting me with the first of many bikes. If they’d have been women, would my anger or mourning be any more righteous?
It’s not that you’re wounded, the way we all are, or that everything’s forgivable. It’s that, I’m not immune to my own humanity. I can’t be on all the time; anchored under the protective armor of diagnostic rationalizations. One hemisphere knows while the other feels. I prefer living pragmatic oceans apart from my self.
Didn’t see the loss coming. All the walls came crumbling down with blood, pounds and illusions. Thought I’d built myself up enough to withstand whatever cosmic battering came next. I.V league. Once again, I was reminded of who’s really in control. F@$k free will and confine us with divine love instead.
I surrendered to my own flesh. You turned out to be emptier than I’d ever been.
The fault line, however, lies with me. Despite repeated attempts to seal or heal it, the likes of you seep in like flood waters over the desert. Subcutaneous starvation fails to patch test before committing to consummation, so ravenous little idiots pay the price.
Fortunately, the debt’s paid, cord’s cut and chain broken. It only took his story repeating itself over centuries for us to eventually wake up. ~