Poison

Sometimes I believe that love is the most bitter poison of all. Something you cannot run from, cannot kill, cannot drown out. It promises all the power to heal. Yes, it has that. But will it make good on its word?

Hope. The bitter thorn in the flesh.

Love is unforgiving. No amount of reason can dismiss it. No logic can sway it. No record of the pain it has caused can dissuade it. No. It stands. Brutal. Cold. Absolute.

In rejection it will not let go. And in death it is only hardened, more resolute than ever it was in life.

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Undone

And there you were, at the corner table of the bar, watching. Maybe that was the writer in you, clinging to the outskirts, lurking in the shadows. And you watched me.

“If it is possible, let this cup be taken from me.”

You watched and you danced and you asked me to dance, but you never asked me into your life.

“Yet not as I will, but as you will.”

And yet how could you know that even your gaze was more than I could bear? Even just your presence enough to shatter me.

“Let this cup pass from me.”

And there I was undone by only the look in your eyes. And nothing in me is the same. Nothing in me can ever be the same. I am undone.

“My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”

And there you are still, in the shadows, at that corner table, watching.

“Speak Lord, for thy servant heareth.”

Matthew 26
Psalm 22
1 Samuel 3

Recurring

It was like a recurring dream. I walked in, confident, a noir picture in my classic attire. I had to look self-assured and what says that better than a trench coat and red lipstick. But then he was always there, in the corner, already drunk. And no matter how precisely I order that drink, no matter how calmly I walk across that room, my heart is pounding in my ears. So many words caught in my throat.

It’s over. He’s scum. He left. He pushed you away, told you he was tired of hearing your sorrows, treated you like trash. Why care?

But then, why did I ever care? Even before it happened, it’s not like he was one to accept help. I liked to tell myself he’d pushed me away in grief, but was that the truth? Or was it that he’d never let anyone in? Ever.

Fuck.

People say having a compassionate heart is a gift. But why did my heart have compassion for someone so cruel, for someone determined never to accept my help? Why the hell did I care? It had all started from a dream anyway.

No, not the hopeful kind you have when your mind wanders. No, the kind you wake up from in a cold sweat with your heart racing. The kind where something terrible has happened and he’s there at your door and can’t even speak.

When it actually did happen I wondered if he’d show up, staggering, drunk on the door step.

And now here I am, stuck in this endless repeat of a scene. He’s in the corner drinking. He doesn’t need me. He doesn’t need my help. And I’ve moved on. Hope for better things. Go after better things. But my heart is still in my throat and pounding in my ears.

Deep Water Rescue

And as if out of no where everything was shutting down.

Drive.

Hope.

Zeal.

I was again that child in the darkness, afraid of the void in every shadow. It had been months now since the deaths and I’d been coping.

Coping.

Crying.

I’d finally come out of my cave, felt like the world could live again. That I could be a part of it again. Seen beauty in the rising sun.

And now. Now.

Again I was a canoe in the middle of the sea. No land in sight. And who could say what slightest turbulence could send me under.

Capsize.

The plunge. The gulping. The cold. The dark.

And the knowledge. The knowledge I’d learned at age ten. Summer camp. Achievement awards.

You can’t deep water rescue a canoe without lifting it on top of another boat.

Is It Better To Burn Than To Fade Away?

Maybe she should just let it all go.

If he always found a way to condescend to her, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. 

The smoke from her cigarette seemed to give life to her thoughts, asking questions from her to the cosmos. Perhaps that was the charm of smoking. A conversation with the air. 

She wasn’t much for being treated like a child. But if she asked for respect she might lose him all together.

The stand still. The risk. 

Love was never easy. 

She shifted her stance, leaning against the stone wall of the hotel entrance. Her figure shrouded in a long dark raincoat, promising of a noir dream. 

The only tangible, committed relationships she’d ever been in were a compromise. A survival tactic. Never built on real love, the kind that stops your heart. 

She hugged the wall under the awning, watching the rain muddle the reflection of the street lamp on the drowning pavement. She drew out another cigarette. Just buy enough time to finish her thoughts. 

He stopped everything. Heartbeat or the world turning. 

Why did the times she shared a real love wreck everything? No matter how mutual the affection something always stood in the way. Or maybe she’d just never been loved. 

But now? Him?

Even these thoughts he’d deride. Tell her, her writing missed the mark. Tell her how wrong she was. Tell her what she meant or felt. He could always find a way to condescend. 

Her cigarette threatened extinction, inching ever closer toward the filter. So often her smoking would pass faster than her thoughts resolve themselves.

Was he trying to lessen the sting? Was he trying to deflect the love that slipped past his defenses?

He could cheapen it all with his, “knowing better,” with the superiority of his age, that stab of calling her a romantic. He could treat her like she was a handful and use that to cheapen everything about her. 

The cherry glowed and sputtered out as it hit the watery pavement.

Is it better to burn than to fade away? Is it better to leave than to be replaced? 

Hearts Like Smoke

The words always hung on our lips, like the years that trembled on Daisy’s. They spilled to the air, but never the ear. Always silent between our eyes.

All the things he had tried to tell me. A scattered explanation. The shatterings of a heart. In the silence of a glance. The hookah pluming between us. And our hearts like the smoke, hanging in the balance of the thick air.

Suicide Bomber

He thought that he was a time bomb. At any moment he would say the wrong thing, let one thing go and-

Boom.

The whole relationship gone. And anything he cared about in himself with it.

Suicide.

He was always afraid of hurting me. But in truth I was the suicide bomber. I was the one with a timer inside. A trigger that no one knew about that could be pulled at any second. A ticking, flashing that anything might activate and then-

Run.

Cause there’s no telling how far the blast will go and if you’ll be able to survive.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Get out of here. Before you kill him. Before you kill yourself. Get out of here. Before it’s all too late.

He tried so many times to tell me to go. Tell me he’d break me. Tell me he’d kill me. But I waited. I stayed.

Run.

Get this timer out of me.

Because killing you will be the death of me.

 

 

 

“Just because I check my gun at the door doesn’t mean my brain will change from a hand grenade.”

Barrier

“She spoke and dreamt in love, and he dreamt in death and loss.” 

There was nothing in the world that could break the barrier between them. No words, crass or eloquent, no actions, bold or refined.

No word or touch of love.

Could anything find him in the wasteland? Or would he only hate himself more, knowing she endured it to find him.

No, her word or touch of love only jarred him. With the idea something could be outside of this. That idle hope, that pipe dream that he could escape this. No, no. Any love for him would drag her into this. Any love would bring her down.

And he knew, too, that she had a wasteland of her own. A place he had no strength to enter. And he would never ask her to find him in his when he could not endure hers.

“And if we survive this desolation, perhaps our journeys will bring us along the same path.” She said in a whisper.

“When I am no longer chaos and your love no longer poison to my heart.” He pulled her close for a moment and closed his eyes before both of them let go.

Lies

She let him speak to himself his darkest fears when his grief had gone in for the kill. Told him she loved him, but handed him to his demons instead.

“Told he’d be his own Father’s infidelity, his legacy—a false charmer that would let hearts molder at his word.”

Said she loved him too much to stay.

Too much to lend a helping hand?

“And that’s where he’d lost himself, in a doubtful fear of becoming that.”

“I can’t keep beating myself up over you.”

You are not worth the pain I feel.

“It had broken the women who had cherished his birth and now had materialized those words in action, a disdain at the face she saw in him.”

If she had ever truly known him, she would have known it was his greatest fear.

“He had fallen into a place where he clawed at his character; his own insecurities were the Cerberus in the abyss he’d taken comfort in.”

No, if she had ever loved him, she surely didn’t now.

 

 

Quotations taken from “Rusted Tracks” by ZaidLux.tumblr.com 

Rusted Tracks