There is always somebody taller...somebody darker, more mysterious, better body, better kisser...
"Where do I fall short?" You ask yourself a hundred times. "Wherr is it that I was not good enough for you?"
You shout to the Angels, to heaven, to God, to nothingness. You shput because 1: you hope that maybe she will hear you and 2: Emotions such as this just aren't compatible with a calm quite and civil voice. You shout because a whisper cannot properly contain the pain you feel. A cup cannot hold the water destined for a jug.
Then, when nothing shouts back, you liquify your pain...condense your emotions into tears and pour them into a chamber in your heart labelled: Heartache. Unfortunately that room is broken...Unfortunately that room leaks. And despite all your 'manly' efforts to not let your emotions betray you, the tears leak out of your hands and onto a page, into a poem, onto a painting, interwoven into a drawing. Art depicting the day you heal; a distant dream... And as long as your hands are more porous than your eyes you shall never heal. As long as your eyes remain painfully Dry and your smile sincerely deceptive you shall never heal. So you wait...You wait till your pencils become blunt and your brushes obsolete. You wait until the emotion pushes against your being do violently a smile seems to tear into your very reasons for living. You wait until happiness seems a dream. And you know that these emotions are not meant to be within you... a cup cannot hold the water destined for a jug yet you hold what you know is not meant for you. So you collapse... physically, emotionally, mentally and in every conceivable way...You collapse. You break. You become a shell, a shdow of the man you used to be as the sluices in your eyes finally open and you cry. Your pain cascades down your face and mixed in between the heartwrenching sobs and the muffled choking you find a new emotion. One you've never felt before. Yet you know that it was there all along, waiting to be released. And as the personified memory of her swaying figure walking away from you appears so does the emotion. Written, nay, Burned in big red letters above her shrinking figure.
And you snap! A broken man snaps. He cries now more viciously than ever before. He stumbles to the cupboard to get a drink and proceeds to drink until those painful red letters disappear in a haze of inebriation. In a drunken stupour you grab the word and wrestle it into submission. You chuck the cursed word into another chamber in your heart labelled: Latet. Meanwhile the jagged A split your skin. The pitiless B ripped open your muscles. The cursed word is subdued, but not defeated. The cursed word left you with wounds and they are clear to the world around you. They expose/subject you to humiliation...To cruelty...To despair......
And all of this caused by a single girl. A girl who...Did not mean to hurt you. She did not mean to break you. Yet you sit on the floor, the wine mixing with angry mutterings of how much you miss her. Then you cry. Again. But this time you heal. This time the tears flow into the cracks in your soul and convince you that you'll be okay. They convince you that there will be a better day after this...That one day you will find the girl that will have another word burned above her head as she walks towards you....
Feedback of any sort on this piece would mean a lot to me.
If you are so inclined please leave a comment or a thought.