Love me faithfully.
See how I am faithful:
With all my heart and all my soul
I am with you
Though I am far away.
Whoever loves in this way
Is turned on the wheel of torture.
Ours is a clash of wills. I hate you and I love you, and I hate how much I can’t live with either. I have your fragile heart, I hope you know, and I don’t want to forgive you for it. The years will bury, as it already is burying, all the moments we pretend had never happened. I’m not going to lie and say that I’m not glad; there are skeletons in our closets better left unchecked. I’m not quite sure if I’m running away from something, or running towards something. Maybe I’m here trying to suspend in, if only for a little while longer, the vague sense of limbo I’ve always had between the then and now. Your love was heavy hands, and broken words, and slithering into the dark recesses of my mind. My love was the first that I had ever known— bearing veins and bones and heart, naive and unquestionable— ripped from my chest, chewed upon and spat back out, stomped into its grimy bits of nothingness. Your love is too many held tongues, too much consideration, too much kindness— too much like sympathy from a triumphant Victor. My love is grief, and loss, and too much guilt— what had been, what now is, what will never be. Too much like a damned soul looking for redemption; too late and never good enough. Ours, is a toxic I don’t want to keep wanting. I don’t want to keep digging a grave I can never rest my bones in.
We always were the calm before the storm, never the storm itself. We were safe in that way— safe in our muteness. I strived for the day of reckoning, where the storm would finally come, and it would destroy us like nothing else before. But as with everything between us, silence was sacrosanct. If a tree falls and no one is there to hear it, does it really make a sound? If the forest falls but no one is there to see it, did it really happen? If you don’t save a dying man, is it really murder? If you don’t save a dying man, because you wanted him dead, is it really murder? I was made in your image. We have both covered our eyes and ears and mouth, and killed everyone else with our inaction. I don’t need a mirror because you are my mirror: your silence and your cowardly words; your selfish heart and empty soul; your pride, your ego, your self-conceit. Have we both learnt to stop being disappointed in each other? There is no better. Neither for you, nor for me. You have made me collateral damage. I have gone from knowing nothing, to believing nothing. And you have led me every step of the way. You gave me what you’ve been given because you knew no other way. But what I’ve been given isn’t fit for giving to anyone else.
I’m sorry. I truly am. There’s not much else I can say that wouldn’t sound trite and insincere. Because even now, all I can think of is how much easier it would be for me. You were collateral damage too. Theirs and mine. For that I am so sorry.
How do I explain the years in between? The battle you have taken, silent and alone— as it can only be. You were here, but not really. Only just so, only enough for me to keep breathing. You should’ve left while it was still possible; before I had hope, before now, because I don’t think I can let go. We’re still teetering over the edge, always off balance, always so close to falling to our deaths. But we love too much— and yet… far too little. The things I’ve done no one else would even dare try, no one else would be allowed. And you’ve cried for our souls, still cry for our souls, because none of this should be as painful as it is. Your love is enough to keep us here, but not enough to make it right. I wish I could tell you that it’s enough, that I know better now, pulled myself back together and fought to live, enough for us to feel alive again. But it’s not. I don’t know if it ever will be. And of the people I wish I didn’t love, you top the list.
Sometimes life deals you a hand like that; no matter how you play, you know you’ll still end up losing. But you play on anyway, and the stakes just keep getting higher. And higher. And higher. Until it all comes down, smothering you. I could’ve seen the common denominator. I should’ve nipped it in the bud. But I love her too.