War in me

“To tryin’ all this, In short of bliss, To kill the cycle that I’ve fed, The labyrinth in me, Is every sin everyday, And all have lain. It’s bittersweet for me to know, The fever, taking over, The status of my fear soars, I’m waging a way, A war in me” Kenna*

The mind is a terrible prison with the devil as warden. A cruel jailer who raps tin cups on metal bars just to taunt. With silver whispers he entreats fellow convicts to tarry and tease disturbing the peace of my solitary confinement. His displeasure denies me privileges, shunning good behavior as sin. He rewards me with life sentences, delights in my evil.

When thoughts of you flutter like volcano ash from the eruption of memories, the detained mind abashes with new revelations.

You will be dating soon, another lover invoking your adoration, commanding your presence. You will marry soon, a few years from now your tired eyes will seek commitment from someone who understands the you, you hope to be. The natural progression of life when the sooty explosion floats away with the wind of your boat escaping my island.

The mind is a frightening jungle, the roaring lion strong on his throne. Every movement hindered by poison tipped vines wreathed hastily around struggling limbs. Steps hesitant of quick sand ravines mirrored as solid ground. Sun light tempered through leafy lengths of brown winged menaces wallowing in rainstorms.

Growing up makes me scared of my very shadow. Constantly confronted with questions about what I’m doing, where I’m going. When did the future become the present; living in the moment a fragment of the ever ticking clock?

I never thought I’d be here squandering without pursuit of purpose.

The mind is a castaway stranded in the middle of the ocean. The swift swish of weighted waves dragging a driftwood body through tidal toils of emotion. Head bobbing in the submersion—gasping for breathe as I’m brought up for air. Water, water everywhere and not a drop to soothe callously chapped lips. Not a trickle to drink to clear the scratchy parch of my throat. The crash and boom of Poseidon’s salty saliva percolates in pitiful streams on dehydrated skin never seeping to the pores.

The strain to swim in essence is my relationship with love. Feelings of inadequacy stem from the two who should love me most, whose fertilization of Y into X created a mix of imperfections. Their lackluster love is incapable of inspiring gratification in my hunt. I’m in the wilderness; spear ready, without even tumbleweed to see me in my splendor. I sense no comfort in your presence; I hear no care in your voice. Were DNA not the tie that binds, we might simply be strangers.  I vainly seek your acceptance and when denied approval I’m left in a world of unworthiness.

Self worth of lack thereof keeping the invisible lock in the Bastille, barring me behind a gateless encampment, shied away from the golden ticket of freedom. Harbors illusions of concrete slabs of quagmire, a tireless tug toward a miry pit. Wrecked by waves in the shallow end of a transparent pond, imaging teardrops to be the siren’s song leaving me shipwrecked.

I’m only as trapped as my limitations of happiness allow.

*Special thanks to @pagesofle for the song recommendation!

Nothing Left to Say

 “You touched my heart And were so giving Spare it so free You threw me in it I fell so deep I could not see my life Without you in it And all I could do for you I should’ve done before (now) In tears we stand here There’s nothing left to say.” Mint Condition

There are over 200,000 words in the English dictionary, so it’s safe to say with that many words I may live to regret a few. When a relationship ends we definitely exhaust our vocabulary to understand it, explain it, rationalize it, and then move on from it. Even worse we expand on the inarticulate words that make us more animal than human. Spinning in circles, the rotation makes us nauseous, until there’s nothing left to say.

You will always wonder if you used the right ones not only to express yourself, but to make sure that the other party can identify with your feelings. That in essence is all you’re left with, a rolling ball of tattered emotions: Rags that once again must become silken robes if you’re ever going to move on to the next one.

Reversing tongue to teeth, I’d take back the stories that made him seem less than my idea of great to others. Once released it’s inevitable that the words will live durably in the minds of faithful listeners, making me own them more than sorrowful sobs desperate for relief. For a few endless months, he was the sunlight in which I perpetually basked. And I was happy. I can try in every language I know to make others understand what he meant to me, but I’ve already shuttered their ears with my side of sorry; so blocked they can’t hear the good hidden in the spaces, masked behind the periods, and lounging in the commas.

I know what I’m not supposed to say: I’m not supposed to say I miss him. I’m not supposed to say that seeing him again, for whatever shallow reason he concocted, reopened the hand stitched seam over a mending heart. That hearing his voice reminded me of the countless stories he told to wake me up and entertain a constantly fluxing mind. But all I can think is that he’s a really great guy, and I hope the next girl appreciates him.

I’m not supposed to romanticize the past and change the ending… but I’d be a fool to make light of what all this meant. Of what it all means. The haunting, melancholy, agony of an Adele song timbered with the sweet notes of the end to a true love story… I really have to stop listening to her.

Of the thousand entries that I’ve written or thought of or dreamed of, I can only say good bye with the lyrics of a song. “This will be my last confession, I love you never felt like any blessing. I was a heavy heart to carry.” Sometimes 200,000 words just aren’t enough to make it last.