Finding Solace in Someone is Harder than Letting go
I’m sorry that I cant be the drug that gets you high. And now you are running up mountains just to get away from the same place that I once told you would keep you safe. I wanted to be your source of solace, your home when you had none. But I realize now that not everybody wants to be saved.
I’m on a train heading east and I will try not to look back at who I thought you could be. You are like the broken pieces of pottery that were shattered the last time the earth quaked. I hear this hate pouring from mouth to no one in particular. It is misguided, but it still hurts. Like a swarm of wasps, stinging everything in the vicinity.
In the night I would listen to you howling at the moon as if I was the one who had left you wounded. I always wanted to tell you that I was not afraid of your insomnia. And I would see you there, the way you seemed to stare at yourself in mirrors until you were not sure if you were the reflection or the real thing.
I always wanted to be right there with you when you couldn’t find sleep, or when you couldn’t figure out if you were real. But I didn’t want you to know that I saw the things that you did when you thought you were alone. I was harsher back then, less forgiving and certainly less understanding.
And i don’t blame you for what you did, people like me and people like you are oil and vinegar, or like gasoline and an ignition source. Never really meant to be too close together. I always wanted to be as strong as you were. So now, to save what I can, to save you I will stay quiet and I will stay away.
"You always had vicodin-stained smiles
that had made it harder for you to exist
and you had closed eyes that wept heroin
that made it easier to love you in the light
You let your existence spill from track marks
and you made me catch it in my mouth so that
I could come to love visits from the reaper’s Father
whenever you saw it was time to suffer
But on the day that your skin was wet
from dancing with the saltwater imps
I realized that you spent too much time thinking
whether death came from existing or laying in our bed
It’s difficult to fall asleep by yourself knowing that’s what you truly are. Eyelids in rhythmic repetition ticking away hours of the night trying to distract yourself from the fact that you have to get up the same way.
But what is worse is waking up feeling just a little more hollow then you did the night before and rolling over to find the man that you foolishly had hoped might change that.
My mother told me not to chase men, to let myself be comfortable by myself. To let them chase me instead. But somehow, they always, always find me and I follow them back to their bedroom.
But then again; making false love behind closed doors is what I do best. I feel like I am somehow trying to make up for lost time. I am spinning, falling out of control. Searching these men’s bodies for that feeling I had before the feeling of hollowness, the same feeling that left around the same time my father did.
They say it’s possible to die of a broken heart but that’s the least of my worries. I worry more about my soul. There are parts inside of me, sprockets and dials that have not spun in tune for years and, I think may be bent too far out to bend back into place.
Each man I let in my bed taking a spring or a gear for a souvenir of my fumbled attempt to find peace within myself, and I suppose that I let them. I cannot demand that they stay and they wouldn’t want to. I am just one in a world is full of hollow people and my memory will be lost in time.