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As I walked inside, headed straight upstairs for a shower, they were talking about me. I knew because of the way they all got quiet when they heard the door close and then suddenly became fascinated by their shoe laces, fidgeting idly and making certain to not look up. I pretended that I couldn't feel my father burning scars into my back with his eyes. ap·a·thy 1. Lack of interest or concern, especially regarding matters of general importance or appeal; indifference. 2. Lack of emotion or feeling; impassiveness. I suppose I haven't assimilated the idea of feeling numb for quite some time, for fear of a relapse into a certain period of my life I'd rather forget. That's an oxymoron, you know, to "feel" "numb". I'd say my whole life is an oxymoron. But what does it mean to feel, anyway? I got into the shower, overwhelmed with one-sided conversations and slippery strands of poetry. I ran the water over my face so that I couldn't tell if I was crying. I hate crying. To feel...is it physical? I nearly scalded myself before it occurred to me that the water may have been too hot. I remembered how you used to take such hot showers. I turned the tap and stood there freezing. Now I ran the cool water over my face. It brought back the cold of your fingers tracing the curves of my face through the tears. And it sickened me, the way your simplest gestures send me into an insatiable kind of yearning, an ache to be nearer eternally, an ephemeral happiness bright enough to glow through from beneath the sullen gloom that's been draped over me like a burial shroud. But that's what love is. The dreadful pains felt with each time our lips met tonight, how I cursed the lifting happiness that rose from inside of me at your touch. Knowing you didn't feel the way that I did, kissing me because it was a habit, when all you wanted to do was walk away and confront yourself alone in your sorrows. Away from me, away from your haunting past, away from the inevitable truths that have bound our hearts together since before this life began. But someone wise once told me that in order to know and understand others, you must first know yourself. I believe that I am as much at a loss in this area as you are right now, as you may be surprised to learn. The thought engulfed me just this morning and didn't leave until my realization (which I have already relaid to you) this afternoon. But I was thinking about it, sitting on the bus and staring out the window, feeling a bit like a caged bird longing to fly again, as ridiculous and cliche as that may sound. I don't know myself as well as I'd admit to. But I could see something in you. I knew something pained you, but I hadn't yet decided what. I never expected that it was so serious, and I was too late. There is nothing I could possibly want more than to take you in my arms and absorb your troubles into my own skin. And I can sit here as long as I want to, grieving over the fact that you don't need me like I need you, jumping at every ring of the telephone in hopes of hearing your voice--but it will never do me any good. Your war lies within your own mind, not with me. You must fight and kill your enemy there, and I can't help you, as painful as it is to admit this to myself. All I can do is apologize for the stress I've caused. You deserve better, you know this. Your life has been far too difficult, my love, to be in pain for much longer, and it is in this that I find what tiny glimmering chards of hope I have left. Post a comment in response: |
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