Best kept secrets

He has never asked "What’s wrong?" or "Are you okay?" As if he knows better. But he has said, "You can tell me anything.” And sometimes I want to believe that statement.

That I could tell him anything or everything. And that would somehow release all these little demons. They would go back to where they came from, or to where they now belong.

But it doesn’t work that way.

Unlocking their cages doesn’t set them free. If anything, it gives them permission to run about. In an explosion of emotion they shed their skins and are born anew. At least locked up, at least hidden in the dark, I know where they are and what they are doing.

And besides, it’s almost impossible to describe how the walls are closing in, how the sky is falling, how the world is running out of oxygen, but I manage to keep on breathing. As the past gets a little closer with every step I take away from it.

How every day is like an open drawbridge and I’m just waiting for the ship to pass.

Dark vs. light

He fits so well into this world. Seamless and solid like a park bench in summer. He just belongs.

He claims he doesn’t, that this is not his home, but I think that’s mostly for my benefit. He contemplates time and space and the possibility of life beyond the stars, like a poet with a heart made of glass. But it’s all just Shakespeare. It’s all just pretending he sees the darkness in the corners. His world is so full of light. Compared to the murkiness that I make my way through. Day after day.

His future in its fancy clothes and me not even caring if it’s dressed. Cautious feet going down steep steps. The laces tied by tired fingers. It takes so little for things to come undone.

And yet he stands there, his back to the window, to the past. As if all of this is worth it.

The road

It was a good feeling, to be headed down that road with someone. To not be alone for once. Everything real so far away. The distance measured in soft caresses, not hard miles.

But then he stopped or got detoured or found a shortcut. Because suddenly his warmth wasn’t there anymore. No footprints except my own. That road less traveled not his cup of tea, I guess. And I wanted so to be more than just a name to him. Because a goodbye offers no parting gifts; just empty boxes.

So I stopped, backtracked, consulted the map on the best way to get from sex to love without friendship. And there he was again. His hand in mine. Each step providing hope where none should exist.

Not friends, but not strangers. No sound other than the steady beat in my head, and so I listen as the music spreads. Colorizing the lament of that road not traveled.

Depressed

Just lying. On the bed, one arm flat against the coolness of the cotton sheets. The other quite comfortable in that hollow above my hip.

Just listening. To the sound of the wind in the trees. Voices along for the ride. A siren in the distance.

Just wishing. That I could forget myself. Feeling my pulse flutter. A panicked beat in my thigh. Emptiness in my chest like something locked alone in a room without windows.

Just thinking. That I come here too often anymore. My palms sweating, my muscles trembling. Weights on my eyelids trying to convince the world I’m dead.

Just floating. In a still life painting amongst fruit and flowers. Their shadows giving them depth. Remembering a time when I looked forward to more than just sleeping.

Nothing

I used to think pain was better. Better than nothing. A scarecrow in the desert, waiting for something to grow. But now I guess I don’t care. So tired of pretending I’m made of bricks when my insides are nothing but straw. It’s not my intent to fool anyone, and yet I am. It’s hard to explain, but there is always this void - between me and the world. A chasm so great there’s no way to overcome it. Any kind of emotion that attempts to cross it becomes a victim of its depth. Like music that suddenly stops, the speakers emit a hum that sucks up any other sound trying to be heard.

Until there's nothing.

Just a deafening silence as I await the next song.

Starry night

I think I want to live somewhere flat. I’m tired of all these ups and down. Even the tiniest hills look impossible to climb. And the journey down the other side is always way too fast. Gravity laughing at my fear.

I have become blank, like one of my own thoughts. That infamous polar bear eating a marshmallow in a snowstorm. Memories becoming separate entities from the images that form them. Orbiting myself like a hunk of space junk, caught in a steady pull, but going nowhere. I am my own moon, always watching from high above, trapped in my own insignificance and yet forever at a distance.

And so I sit, too tired to cry, casting up my wishes for a starry night, so that I might find myself again.

Another day

Day by day living. That’s all this is anymore. The sound of rain at my window not distraction enough. My ink addiction just something to pass the time. Pretend words like pretend clouds painting on a plywood backdrop.

My fingertips miss his shoulder blades. Like etching life into a tombstone. Warm lips pressed against the skyline. So sure I’ll never be able to climb high enough. My fear of falling too great.

My nondreaming heartbeats absorbed by the unfamiliar darkness. No quickening pulse to help me sleep.

Room 504 this time

The only good thing about all this travel is that it makes him say he misses me.

Fading

I feel like fading
Away,
Dissolving, evaporating,
Molecule by molecule,
Forgetting how to feel,
Letting go of the gloom,
The darkness,
Yet not letting in the light.

I feel like fading,
Unlike these memories,
But not forgetting,
How good it can feel,
How deep it can go,
How lost I can get.

I feel like fading,
Into the colors,
Away from the presence,
Toward the nothingness.
Not erased quite yet,
Just fading slowly,
Away.