double-edged swords

Everyone I love leaves!

Everyone I love leaves!

Everyone I love leaves!

It’s a song I can’t stop singing, a Bible verse of my own I can’t stop believing in. I am scared of love and all it entails, scared that, written in my marrow exists an ultimatum, Everyone you love will leave you! I am scared of the way you clutch me unconditionally because all I have grown to know is condition after condition after condition. How do you take a wrecking ball to these walls without striking yourself down in the process of doing so? How do you demolish the idea without leaving the idea of yourself in ruins? The art of mutual exclusivity. I can’t keep breathing this air but without it I would die. Unfair laws of the universe, you govern me and all of my weakness.

I am scared of how much I love you. I am scared of your feet. I don’t know how fast they are capable of running away from me, from us, from everything we are currently building. I am scared of your smile, crooked and genuine, because of how beautiful it is. I’ve never seen beauty of that calibre. I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t know how to not stare, dumb and out of words. No language. No way to express how utterly bone-chilling you are, the audacity of your beauty—a fist formed to all the ugly in the world. You are remedy to the unbecoming. You are grace in a graceless world.

I am scared of how much I hunger for the end. Or not even the end, but a way to stop feeling the particular sensation of tragedy that consumes me upon rising each morning, a method of anesthetizing the perpetual throb of my body, a tangle of nerves and pressure points—how to numb the lack of control.

Sometimes I speak and am surprised at the sweetness of my own voice. I feel bitter, conniving, burning, and rotten. But when I catch myself talking I am stunned at how good I am a concealer of pain, how you can hear music resounding where my pain would otherwise echo. I mask the ache with honey, fresh petals, warm tea. You’d never guess that beneath the pleasant exterior I am an infernal scream. I am something begging to be torn, put down, ended. I am plaster and drywall covered in dainty pink wallpaper. Tear me down, break me, leave me in my own wreckage I am begging you. But then again, I don’t know if you could handle it—seeing me all mangled like that, too far gone to cry for help, nothing but a heap of broken promises, a deconstructed fortress.

I shuttle so quickly between too much and not enough. As if I am constantly suspended inside the webbing between both. The lacking side of me thirsts for adventure, for miles of European countryside and enough time to disappear in it. This side wants plane rides and exotic cuisine, poetry and color. But my other side, my incoherent, overwhelmed half, wants nothing more than to forget it all, to abandon all of this wanting more and never quite reaching the precipice of satisfaction. That side wants stillness, dreams of growing roots for stability, hungers for the pleasure of staying put.

I really did fall in love with a war. I guess I just underestimated how much I would want it to end.

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