I'd rather not feel the pressing pressure, gurgling forth and unable to spill out in agonizing bubbles. Oh, let me sit without this pain that is emptiness. No, loss. No, I cannot name it. It is a crane that I fold from paper. But not to be wished on. Is it nothing if it has no form of its own except this uncomfortable silence.
It is an inexplicable shock of hurt from a dream. God, why do I remember? Thank not the subconscious, for it is cruel. It is bitter and not sweet. And yet it does not hurt, only aches in my chest where my heart should be.
Let me not feel this. I am begging without conviction. As this is pain without form. Is it my nerves or my heart that feels this ghost in my heart-cavity?
But it is better than nothing. I think. It is tears that do not spill over, so it is not a threshold of pain. It is a threshold of aching, longing for what I do not want. But I do want it. I chose elsewhere instead.
The taste is like regret, but they are not the same. I would not go back for it if I had the choice.
Is this happiness? It shouldn't hurt this bad. My face in the steamed mirror is not agony. It is not acceptance either. When will I see forgiveness in the silver?
I can solve it, but that would be the coward's way out. It helps no one but myself. And yet I want that. And I fear it. Back to numbness? I think not. Yet I have never been numb.
I would not forget anyway. The mind holds onto pain more clearly. And an injury is stronger in retrospect. What choice is this to make? Not mine. And yet I made it.
Forgive me, soul. I knew not that I burdened you with this anxiety. I have left my outlet behind. No vacancy here for that imagining.
That is the pain. There is a lump where that thing should be, that thing I cast out. Is this love then?
I never understood destruction. This is love on the small scale. If there is such a thing.
But not love enough to stay. Love to leave is stronger.
Ah, but the aching, physical warmth of loss in my chest, that is where my heart should be. I will retrieve that from the tub's drain and be done. If I could. If I can.
There is a difference between what I can do and what I could have done. Closing off possibilities. That is where I cannot forgive. And yet I think I just did.
My chest does not feel lighter. But I can now see my eyes again. They are the same, if more unfulfilled.
And what is love anyway if I can refuse it? Maybe that is that love is. And the unrefused becomes obsession. Or maybe obsession fills the hole where love has lain. I do not know. I am learning. And it is painful, but without scarring.
Or maybe the soul is scarred. But the most scarred souls have lived. And I can write about that.
Accept I left that behind. My choice is now my hurt that I do not regret. A lock who's key I burned. Then it is ashes that start my heart now and they are heavier than they appear. But it is with them that I may be able to ink my pen.
And I will write a dedication to those left behind. If I have not given that choice away as well.
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