I want to preface this free-thought exercise by saying I’m totally fine. I’m not actually upset or struggling at the moment. I just channeled a lot of thoughts I’ve had over the past several years for different reasons – this isn’t about any one specific person or situation, it’s a composite of struggles and processes. It’s all of the good and “the upside down” (for you fellow Stranger Things fans!) that comes with just being human and forming (and trying to form), and unmaking, bonds with people. What those bonds are, and what they aren’t. Peace!
Loki (he’s been gone a few years now) and my old art studio, which I could no longer keep.
It isn’t a beginning.
It is an end.
It isn’t a big house.
It isn’t a favorite book.
It isn’t tenderness and validation.
When you have to move on, it can be grueling. It can feel like ash and stone flying through the atmosphere. Why is it like that, no matter how bad it gets?
I look back at what it was. What it wasn’t. What it is now. What it isn’t today.
It is the absence of respect.
It is the presence of resentment.
It is an angry woman who reads her husband’s emails and lashes out because she is insecure – because of the way she got her husband to begin with. It isn’t a woman who accepts blame.
It is loss that is far more good than the subtraction of love, but the addition of self-respect.
It isn’t caring what you destroy until you’ve already crushed it to bits.
Looking down. Dust on your boots. Blood. Ash. And you wonder why people don’t want to have a happy chat.
It’s creepy little threats.
It’s a smell you can’t forget.
It is blame, not in the mirror, but outwards – for your very own flaws.
It is a bad review out of spite to manifest your petty anger.
It is accusing people of the very things you are guilty of.
It is shedding your own skin like a reptile, if you ever had your own skin to begin with.
And it is assuming the identity of a Stepford Wife. “Whatever you like, I now like.” As if you are hollow inside.
It is long distance.
It is cold hearted.
It is selfish beyond selfish, but ultimately the best thing ever.
It is banana bread and canned peaches.
It is lilacs and gold roses.
It is forgetting as the memories scatter into darker corners with each passing week…month…year.
It isn’t the acceptance of the role you play, because you are perfect. Remember? You never do anything wrong.
It’s the fault of people who you believe take advantage of you, not your falseness that made them believe that they were not trespassers. It is the people who didn’t know you were lying who are to blame, not the person who lied.
“Why don’t you trust me?” HA! THAT IS HILARIOUS! Oh, the resentment when I showed skepticism was rich!
It is rape of my trust. It is sliding into a booth and planting a kiss on me without my permission. It is the everlasting overlapping of lies and truth that made a nice veneer. Thin and brittle, but it looked so shiny, rich, solid on the face. Fake. False. Fake. False.
It is the hot resentment on the back of your neck when you walk by because you took what you wanted and I still rose up from the ash. Poorer and richer. Depends on how you look at wealth, I suppose.
It is vulnerability.
It is feeling like a failure.
It isn’t closure.
When you want closure, when it is never going to be given to you (can it actually be given, anyway?) you have to keep working to find it.
Closure doesn’t come suddenly one day and BAM! You’re all better.
No – closure is a process. It is a place you first must find the path towards. Then walk the path. Then knock on the door. Sometimes nobody opens the door because they don’t give a fuck about you. Sometimes you have to open the goddam door yourself. And once that door is open, you have to keep going there for school, you keep having to learn your way to it. It doesn’t just wash over you. You don’t get out of it that easy.
It isn’t anointing.
It isn’t wound-less.
It is bleeding. Then dressing. Then scars.
It’s a lack of understanding.
It’s bad bad communication.
It isn’t perfection.
It isn’t absolution.
It is new walls with each assault.
It is stronger bricks.
It is a higher wall.
It is letters never sent.
It is apologies never received.
It is lies that burn my flesh.
It is hurt that tears at my heart.
Or tore. Or burned. It’s all of them at once.
It is fire and water and metal and earth.
It is humanness.
It is forgivable.
It isn’t forgettable.
The forgiveness is for yourself, not for them.