I am not a willow
It seems our agreement shifted. And if I wanted to I would. If I believed anything other than the past would repeat itself, I’d behave differently. If I had it in me, I’d be right back on board. But,
I don’t have it in me. I don’t believe anything other than the past will repeat itself. In my deepest depths, recesses of my heart and mind, all my hidden coves, I know that nothing will change. I know that I will go through this over and over until I’m completely destroyed. Angry. Hateful. Resentful. Incapable.
And that’s not who I want to be. Not who I am. Not a person I’m willing to become.
I believe in goodness, in love. I believe in awareness, in knowing when you’re done, in trusting to know when we’ve reached an impasse.
It’s not that your aren’t worth it. You are my greatest love. You are everything I hoped and ever wanted. You are a kaleidoscope.
But I have scar tissue built up around my ability to go back. It’s marbled, knobby, held fast. I can see no, feel no, believe no other way.
The distance stretched too far this time. My heart is hardened. My hope proved insufficient. Asking for work, effort, belief, is out of the question. I’m tired. And I can’t.
Not a shade
And most certainly
Weakness exists in the mind of the slighted. You’re weak
In the mind of the one who cannot own. I was weak
Weakness, the idea of it, is an excuse. Protection against truth, honesty, ownership.
Weakness exists in heart of the broken. I am weak
In the heart of the lost. They were weak
Weakness, the idea of it, is a comfort. A barrier against pain, reality, ownership.
Weakness exists in the breath of the disillusioned. Crushed, forced from them until the final wisps trail out
Along paths worn deep.
Lit from within, you clamor
with gritted teeth and
Tense muscles, still you work
to ignore the
Distractions pulling at your mind.
Beats you from behind. Rains
down. Covers. Darkens.
Fills you with misgivings.
Paralyzes you with fear.
The ever remaining truth. You have
No way to know. No way to tell.
No way to be certain your
Choices are right.
Each piece you hand out may never return. Giving it all away so freely, you must know dangers await. Without a string attached, it won’t know to return. How will you have more than what you’ve got, if you’re slapping it in the hand of every stranger that walks by?
Surely, you could take more care. Keep it closer. Dole it out, once worth has been assessed? It’ll all be gone and you’ll be left empty handed. Hollow-hearted. Weak and sad.
I keep all of mine in here. See? It’s just there. In that pile. Waiting. For the right time. The right one. The one that deserves it. Earned it. Needs it. I’ll be fine sitting here, watching you empty of your abundance.
Fine, go. All I need is just there. Under that layer of dust. Beneath the lost and lonely. Don’t worry, I know what to do. While you dump yours all over, I’ll have mine right here. Close and always waiting.
I’m having a flash fiction piece published in an anthology this August. I’m excited.