I used to feel an aching sorrow
in my chest
as if every mistake I had ever
made had been piled on top
and although I have since been
relieved of that weight
I do no feel light
I do not feel free
Like a soaring bird heading
to find warmth
all I feel is anticipation
for a journey to a
destination I am still
and that is a weight
of its own
And sometimes it still hurts.
Sometimes I still feel the lingering sting of it all,
a memory long gone, slowly fading, but still within sight.
And sometimes I have nightmares about you
that give me shivers and cold sweats,
the image of your screaming face still imprinted in my mind.
But you were poison oak and my skin was much too fragile
to make it out unscathed.
And sometimes I can still feel the bruises you left behind,
jamming my fingers into them,
as they weep like tiny stab wounds.
And I am left here,
still trying to wipe your name from my tongue,
and oh how bitter it tastes.
My heart has swelled
to the size of an ocean,
and all I can do
is blame you.
All I’ve ever known
Was how to bleed in ink
To tear my paper with my pen
And never stop to think
To rip apart my insides
And spill them on my page
Watching them form silent words
Of wisdom, hope, and rage
I never thought that I would smile,
that I would hear you breathe rhythmically,
in sync with my own heartbeat,
that my hand would reach out for yours
even if you were not near.
I never thought that I could love,
that I could open up my heart and bleed
without feeling ashamed,
that my world would be forever altered by your touch.
When I was a little kid, I was a pathological liar. It was almost like I had a disease. For some reason, I could not stop lying. Every afternoon, when school let out, I would climb into my mother’s car and begin to tell her more of my creative fibs. As of recently, however, it is seldom that I lie. Apparently, I have become much too blunt of a person to hide my true sentiments. Go figure. Regardless of this, I still do lie. I am only human after all, as far I as I know.
The last lie that I have told, that I can actually remember, was when my friend asked me if I was mad at her, and I said no. What she had done to cause me to be mad at her was an act that was certainly forgivable, but only forgivable in time. I had still been in shock over what had happened and was still surprised that it had even occurred at all. I was hurt and angry and I wasn’t quite sure how to move on in our friendship. I wasn’t quite sure I wanted us to have a friendship anymore. So when she asked if I was mad at her, I lied. I told her that everything was fine and not to worry.
Part of me suspected that she just didn’t want to deal with the fact that someone on the planet Earth had a reason to dislike her, while another part of me suggested that she did not and could not understand why I would be mad in the first place. If I had, in fact, confessed that I was still mad at her, that might have just lead to even more conflict, which is what I was trying to avoid. I did not want to have to remember what had happened between us by having a heated argument about why I could not forgive her at the present time. It seemed hideously pointless to tell her the truth when she most certainly did not want the truth, but the answer that would reassure her that everything was alright. So, in effect, I gave her what she wanted. I gave her a lie.