Why is it so hard to admit our own feelings? Not only to others, but even to ourselves? As though some imaginary line exists, and your heart believes you just can’t cross it in fear of something uncomfortable. You know, that expansive feeling within your own heart, as though this one emotion is breaching all limits you thought were possible. Or that overwhelming fiery sensation that makes you want to grab onto something when it just feels like too much – maybe if anything to assure yourself it’s real.
Is it all created by chemicals that aren’t yet tangible? Are these feelings purely felt, or do they become what we see and believe, thus driving us to bliss and yet madness at the same time? We unwind amongst someone we call home but are terrified when we are no longer alone. We are content in our reality, void of anything that knows the real us, void of people who dig deep enough to truly love in the unconditional sense. We shut off and lock them out so that they wont’ have to circle about, so that my hands don’t have to shake as I watch their words uncover what I buried so deep. Thoughts that linger, beliefs that sting, memories that make us lie in an attempt to feel sane. But then comes pain. Which we rip off like band aids because that’s all we really know, just like feelings, just like love, if its gone, you simply let it go.
But it’s all fake, just a show, for your own sake and for your heart that weighs like stone.
And so I hated that way you looked at me, because it felt so raw. So I covered myself up, thinking that these cuts and scrapes were made from love, but were actually always there. Man made, handmade, by my own selfish denial. Love could heal, but I’d rather be simply bandaged. I’d rather be safe in what I’ve always known, in what I’ve always been afraid to feel. At least there I am content in loneliness, rather than vulnerable in love. At least my veins aren’t pulsing and my hands don’t sweat. At least my throat doesn’t choke on loving words and my heart doesn’t race when you’re near. At least here I am alone.
I pretend I am strong in my loneliness, when weakness is what consumes me. Weakness is what makes me move in such empty circles.
And so with all of my lost heart, I say that I am sorry I couldn’t be stronger for you.
It would be a lie to say I didn’t try my best, but it would also be a lie to say that I did.