It lurks beneath the surface.
A grief, you must know, a grief that I cannot quite find the right words to encapsulate its shape and size, the weight of it, the graininess of its taste it my mouth, the sourness on my tongue…
I hate it.
(I hate it with all my being)
When it is quiet and I am alone. Perhaps I have had the slight touch of a sweet bourbon on my tongue. I am tired, exhausted, and yet still awake.
That is when it pounces;
that is when it sees and seizes its opportunity
That is when it strikes.
And strike it does with voices and questions and barely remembered hurts and floods my mind and floods my heart and punches me in the kidneys with:
- Did you even matter?
- Did she even care?
- Does she care? Does it matter if you do and she doesn’t?
- Are you sure you’re even feeling this?
- Are you faking it? Did she fake it?
- What is real? Is this even real?
- Is any of this worth it?
Is any of this worth it?
I don’t know and I hate not knowing. I hate not being in control of my faculties. I hate being at the mercy of my emotions.
I hate the weakness. Feeling and being weak.
She has made me weak and I have allowed it. I let myself get…tricked into loving and caring. I let myself get tricked into trust.
I hate it and part of me hate hers for this state that I now exist in; blind and wanting, away from her and unable to reconnect, to touch to taste to speak to be heard to be–
I hate it. I hate, hate, hate– I hate.
I hate it and most of all I hate myself for allowing this trickery.
My anger and my pain comes from the self-hatred.
(And that is the worst. Because even as I make this about her, the real, hard truth is that it is about me and my feelings and my anger and my fear and me, and me, and me — I would like to believe I’m ready for love, but goddamn it, I am almost certain that I never will be).