When I was born, I was given up before my eyes could even adjust to the sight of my birth parents, only to be given back to them at age five. I was ***** by my mentally ******* uncle at age eight. I fell in love with a boy who beat me repeatedly at the age of sixteen. My house drowned in a flood at age twenty one.
And yes, I know that you’re trying to rip me to pieces darling and I don’t necessarily blame you, but just know that your efforts will go unnoticed. That throwing around words like “*****” and “*******” are going to have to be more bold and red than the blood i laid in at age eight looking up at good ole uncle Kevin. That no matter how many words you spew my way, I will not drown in them thanks to the flood waters that taught me how to swim. I know that giving me up was something easy for you to do, much like falling rather quickly into her bed, but don’t worry darling I will not let it get me down. You see, yes you’re a hurricane but where I live we have a lot of those. You experience it, pick up the pieces of your life you’re left with and then you build your life back up. The good thing about hurricanes though is they only come once. There will only be one hurricane elizabeth and you were her. So now that you’ve run your path leaving me a little bruised and beat up, I am gathering my belongings because I have already found a new home. One protected from you.
I wrote this around two years ago, and I just found it. Boy how have the tides changed. I'd like to thank my now wife for being my home then and my home forever.
Twenty one years I've allowed myself to become frozen in time every moment I caught a glimpse of his work. Standing still and breathless taking in every stroke that went into his beautiful genius. His ability to make hours feel like minutes of my time was why I've always said he is my favorite artist, that no creator could ever be better. Then she took me to an art measum, pulled my hand towards one of his paintings and stood in front of me as she spewed out words of excitement. Glimpses of his flowers between the curls that fell on my face as she put her head on my shoulder. In that moment I had a greater appreciation for him than I ever have because he created this moment for us. Fingers intertwined. Awestruck fixation. Everything I had ever felt for him in twenty one years being pulled to the surface at once. Such a poet. Such a breathtaking masterpiece. As I was thinking those thoughts I realized my gaze wasn't on the painting but on her. And then I began to think that maybe he wasn't my favorite artist maybe god was or her parents or whatever source of life had created her. She was the beauty in a room full of renown art. She was the breathtaking one, she was the one that I wanted to spend hours examining every curl every freckle every scar because it was all beautiful.
"How did you move on from your last relationship?"
"I didn't, I just hoped that the woman selling sunflowers at the farmers market didn't see the tears in my eyes when I remembered the time my past love came into that coffee shop with a flower the size of her."
Please stop crossing my mind from time to time when I know I don't still cross yours.
Break open the top of that razor you bought for your legs to reveal the four little blades you will soon use as weapons against your wrist. Take one, two, three more sleeping pills than recommended. Take that lighter that once was used to light the candles in your room and place it on your skin leaving burns behind. Use those hands you hugged your mother with to punch black and blue marks onto your knees. Go to the store with the money you were supposed to spend on lunch that day and spend it on as many cigarettes as your lungs will allow and then some. Crack open that money jar and go buy the strongest alcohol you can afford and even if it stings drink it down to the last drop. Take your body away from helping fill the sandbags and throw it into the current. Take the space in your emergency suitcase full of clothes and pictures and force in letters from her in their place. It doesn't matter if you write words into your skin with that blade or if you love someone that doesn't love you, they're all the same. Self harm.
You're my blade and I can't put you down. How sick is it that I still need you? That I packed your shirt before mine knowing it wouldn't fit me, but it still smells like you so how could I let it drown along with my house in this flood?
You'll never be able to love someone so much that they'll love you back. You can't love someone into loving you.
I stare blankly at her back while I write words of sweet melodies that used to be the soundtrack to our lives. Her body my own personal notebook, except I've already written a bestseller with you. Her touch so beautiful but not as tender as your fingers when they danced around mine. Every aspect of her is worth loving and so I do. But the difference is I'm loving on her while I love you.
Do you remember all the drunken phone calls you would supply me with on countless three am mornings? Stumbling and fumbling on your words while you tried to tell me how horrible she was to you and all the little digs she had taken that day. Do you remember convincing me of her "sickness" because no sane person could ever dare touch your body and not fall madly in love with it. Do you remember the power you probably felt as you realized i was buying every lie you were selling to me? Because I remember the day I actually met your so called sick lover and how I looked down upon her because of the things I thought she had done to you. And the time that I wandered into that little coffee shop you both work at only to find her there and not you. And the conversation I had with her that night which blead into the next nine months and counting. And how surprised I was to find that the heart I was once convinced of being black is actually thriving. And the time that I realized that you weren't lying about the relationship being toxic but the cancer wasn't coming from her hands. And how mad I got that you spread rumors of abuse and torture that never truly existed. But see the ironic thing is after all that time the girl you claimed to be ill, your own personal patient, doesnt even hate you for the placebo you've been injecting into everyone and you know why? Because after all this time she was the doctor and you were the one needing medical attention.