Heartbeak - Tumblr Posts

I am holding our love in my arms

She is dying

She is bleeding out

I don’t know how to save her

~

I did it

I didn’t mean to

Oh god, what have I done?

What have I done,

My love

~

She stains my hands with

Memories of us

As I try to staunch the bleeding

Exhales butterflies that die on her lips

Whispers to me

Of everything she could have become.

Says she doesn't blame me

But I do

But I do

And where were you when it happened?

Memories fall from the notebook

I expect them to flutter to the floor

But they tumble from the pages

Leaden with the past

And shatter upon the ground

~and i cut the soles of my feet on the unsaid, leave a trail of bloody footprints behind me that haunt anyone who crosses my path

l o v e l a n g u a g e

language: the principal method of human communication or

a systematic means of communicating ideas or feelings by the use of conventionalized signs, sounds, gestures, or marks having understood meanings

~

93% of communication is non-verbal. and i tried to learn a new language for you.

it was not an easy one. there were no textbooks, or online review tests, or vocabulary sheets. there was only my hastily scrawled notes trying to understand. there was only me, practicing my pronunciation in the mirror, watching my mouth form around unfamiliar vowels, my hands trying to learn how to hold the consonants so you might be able to better understand my accent. there was only you, trying to teach me a language that had never been transcribed.

you lend me one of your earbuds on the bus and play a song i cannot understand because there are just chords. just brushstrokes of sound. just melody threading notes together. the music is trying to say something. but you are trying to say something too by giving me this rythem. i cannot understand. but i listen anyways. and these are the ways in which i try to learn. you memorize my coffee order but forget my birthday. you never say you miss me but you look back twice exactly when we part every time. your eyes are always closed when we touch. i do not understand what these things say, or what you are trying to tell me but i listen anyways. and these are the ways in which i try to learn.

once, we don't speak for too long and the first night you spend in my bed again, i ask you, before i turn the light off, what it means. you don't look at me. you say you don't know. so i flick off the light switch and curl around myself under the covers. your hands find my hair, find my waist, find the soft skin of a scar, find the place where the flesh is thinnest between the world and my heart. i ask you what that means. you say it means, "you still have me." and so i kiss every one of your finger tips and in this way i respond, "i am glad." i let my legs tangle with yours under the blankets and in this way i say, "you still have me, too." in this moment you have not learnt my language yet either. but we are both learning. and some things are hard to misinterpret.

you take me to the movies to watch the same film for the second time. i do not understand what this is trying to say or what you are trying to tell me but i listen anyways. on the drive home, we take the leftover silence of the theatre with us, and i ask you what you meant when you did this. you are still picking the quiet out from your teeth with your tounge and so i say, "in my language, this means, 'i would choose the silence over your voice.' in my language this means 'you are only worth the past, over again. there is no moving forward, only backwards. until we fall into the oblivion from which we came'. " you pull off the road. you shake your head. say, "in my language, this means, 'the quiet is hard sometimes but never with you.' in my language, this means 'i think we have time enough to reread stories twice'. this means, 'you are the familar and for this i am grateful'. this means, 'i do not need adventure to stay'. that I am content to sit with you and the dark and devour a peice of the world together."

and so i come to learn that your leg slipping over my hip when i am just on the cusp of sleep means: i forgive you. learn that a sandwich found in the fridge made the night before for me to take to work means: im sorry. learn that the hour long shower means: not now. learn the bitting of the nails means: now. now, please. i learn the sunday morning pancakes mean: i love you. but so do the forehead kisses and the 1:30 am texts about tomorrow and the you telling me about your day. i learn the offer to fix my car means "let me be something for you, please." i learn 2 dirty mugs in the sink mean a bad day unless one of them is the red one and it's thursday, because then that just means working late, and in this way i learn about the context of a phrase.

you learn things too. pick them up slowly. through daily conversation. murmmer things in passing. nonchalant and nervous. i don't correct you. i just smile. because I know what you are trying to say.

i wince sometimes at the misused vocab and poorly built sentences that crumble quickly, but i do not offer to teach you until you ask. because i know for certain what you are saying then. saying:

i want to know how to speak to you in the language you feel most at home in.

i want to be able to know you in the words there are no direct translations for.

i want to be able to find you in the dialect you retreat to when the day has gone on too long.

you are saying:

i want to be able interpt everything you think there are no words in my language to say, and so you don't say them.

i want you to be able to tell me everything

you are telling me:

i want you to know that i want to try and talk to you even when it is hard.

you offer to walk with me in the fall afternoon even though you hate the crunch of the leaves that you say sounds too much like endings and i ask you if this offer means "i love you" or "i don't want to be alone right now" and you are looking away from me when you explain that sometimes things can have more than one meaning.

i tackle you half screaming half laughing when you buy us the concert tickets for my birthday and you ask me if this means "thank you" or "i love you" and i am smiling when i explain sometimes things can have more than one meaning.

i come home late to find you sobbing on the bathroom floor and i hold you for hours. i show you videos of baby's laughing until the tears subside long enough for you to kiss me with salt sorrow stained lips and i ask against your mouth if this means "thank you" or "i love you" and you whisper of how different things can have the same meaning and in this way i learn of synonyms.

sometimes the learning of a new language is difficult.

is frustrating.

is silences that scream two things in dissonance.

for the hardest things to define are the absences.

for there are a million subtle ways the pronunciation of quiet differs depending on what you are trying to convey.

sometimes learning a new language is

mistakes.

is misunderstandings.

is apologies

for violating customs

and muddling unfamiliar proverbs.

i'm sorry,

this is not my native tounge.

but i am trying.

i am learning.

if you are willing to teach me.

sometimes a new language is something we become fluent it. the bilingualism comes easy. it rolls off our tounge like second nature. you realize now there are new ways to love in this language. but there are also new ways the hurt. and new ways to heal. and new ways to apologize. you realize there are new ways to know someone when they are not afraid to be misheard.

sometimes a new language is a patchwork quilt of simple words and poorly stitched grammer. sometimes i pull out a few words at the restaurant to impress you. you smile less at the phrase, more at the gesture. sometimes i stumble over the words and you help me up, help me along the sentence, because you know it means the world to me to try for you.

sometimes all we can do is learn to understand. the words never come out right so we stop trying. but we listen. we nod. we laugh. we hold them at all the right parts of the story.

sometimes the greatest gift you can give someone is to understand

what they are trying to say.

when she makes paper flowers and sends me photos of them. i know she is trying to tell me: "look. i got out of bed today and created something beautiful. i thought of you in the slow process of the cultivation of this miracle." and i don't know how to reply. not in her language atleast. and so i don't. but i know what she means.

sometimes it is enough to understand someone.

sometimes it isn't.

sometimes a new language is not for us. we tell ourselves we are too old to pick it up. we tell ourselves it is too difficult. too forgien. too complicated. we try for the sake of saying we tried. but we don't.

in the end, we know how to say hello and goodbye and thank you and a handful of curse words. sometimes we know how to say i love you. in the formal tounge. with textbook pronouns and rigid verbs.

sometimes learning a language is

things lost in translation

is

how was I supposed to know what that meant?

is

why didn't you just tell me?

is

i didn't know how.

is

being too tired to roll your r's and remember the right tense.

sometimes learning a language is screaming everything you cannot translate at the language barrier between you. hoping they understand. hoping they don't.

but there is something unmatched about being welcomed home in your mother tounge.

something about being forgiven in words you could never misinterpret.

about being called to bed by the familar.

t h e r e i s s o m e t h i n g u n p a r a l l e l e d a b o u t b e i n g l o v e d i n

y o u r o w n l a n g u a g e.

You have softened all my edges.

And I am afraid

That when you leave,

(As they all

Inevitably do)

I will be left

Defenseless

Against

The world.

~

I run my fingers over all the places my skin is pulled taunt.

"You don't have to, if you don't want to."

"I know."

But I want to want to.

For you.

There is not enough space

Between the lines

To hold

Everything

I failed to say.

~

I wonder often

If they will remember me

As anything other

Than what I helped them forget.

So I make promises

Knowing they will be broken,

In an attempt

To collect sins.

Hoping

In the end,

I might

Cash them in

To see you again.

~

I say

I forgive you

But you tell me

It means nothing

Because you do not

Forgive yourself.

Then what am I worth to you?

What am I worth to you?

For are you so staunch in your belief,

That you do not deserve

To be loved,

That you would shatter my heart

To prove yourself right?

~

I tell myself,

If I could not make you love me,

I will at least

Make you

Miss me.

But I do not hold it against you.

For if I left me

I would not

Long for my return

Either.

~

I title this chapter

Lessons on forgiving

Myself

When I deserve it

Least.

In it,

Sorry

Is not used

Once.

~another compilation of thoughts only beautiful out of context

The last time I saw love was on my doorstep on a Sunday afternoon in winter. She looked pale and weak. Clutching a threadbare beige coat, arms hugged around her waist, already wilting daisies in hand. I could see a red stain blossoming behind the coarse material. I peak out the curtains, but leave the door closed. She catches a glimpse of me in the window and something like hope flickers in her iris. 

I let the curtain fall, my heart in my throat, then in my palms. It’s beating irregular. Not quite steady but not quite moving to the symphony in used to when love arrived. Love lays a palm against the front door. She calls my name. Barely audible over the wind but how could I mistake her voice. Seeping through the entryway and into my skin. 

My heart is still in my hands. I can hear love’s laboured breathing, just an arm’s length away. All I would have to do is turn the handle, a hopeful voice whispers. But I know this is a lie. Love is bleeding out on my door step. She is dying. I would have to do so much more to save her. Again. And I know that is why she is here. Because she cannot save herself. The greying supermarket flowers in her fingers are not just an offer, but a plea. 

I want to say “Love, no,” or “Love, I can’t,” or “Love, I’m sorry,”. I want to open the door and take her inside and treat her wounds and ask her to hold me as she heals. But I can’t. I can’t. Not this time. So I say nothing. I rest my back again the door and exhale. Or try to. All that comes out is a mangled sob and I clasp a damp palm across my mouth. She calls again, softer this time, nostaliga leaking into her voice. The muscle in my palms jumps and my eyes prick, hot tears flooding my vision. I press my back against the door, needing something solid. 

I have never held out this long. Always given in at the last minute, not ready to let her go. To let her die. Last time she had stopped breathing in the car and I waited a full minute before I jerked the car to a stop on the side of the highway and resuscitated her in the back seat. Begging her to come back. That I was sorry. That I could not live without her. She woke with a gasp and the promise of forever on her lips, as she always does. She has not been the same since then. She hasn't been the same for months, but especially since then. 

A bang rattles the door frame and I bite down on the soft spot between my thumb and forefinger, my back sliding down the door frame. It's quiet now, as I sit on the floor in the entereway. I squeeze my eyes shut and let the tears come silently, cradling my heart against my chest. I hold my breathe for a moment when I think I hear something on the otherside of the door, but it is just loves wheezing breath. I begin counting the seconds between her each inhale and exhale, as they gradually grow father and father apart. My heart is warm throught the fabric of shirt and my head is heavy. Soon love’s breathing stalls and does not pick up again. 

I count to ten and grit my teeth against the urge to toss my heart aside and pry open the door and breathe life into her. To yank her jacket open and shove my longing into her wound until the bleeding stops. To press assurances into the chest over and over until the spark returns to her eyes and she tells me everything is going to be okay. I’ve counted to twenty now and my back aches from this position on the ground but I dare not move. Not shatter this already delicate moment. Then I’ve counted to thirty, then sixty, then one hundred and twenty and then I loose track of the moments as my eyelids droop and rest tugs me under. I fall into a dreamless sleep with salt stained cheeks and my heart beating steady in my hands. 

When I wake, it is dark. As I peel my eyes open I realize it is the street lights that are casting dancing patterns across the tiled floor through the blinds. The only other source of light is a glow emitting from the kitchen where I must have left the switch on. My throat is dry and my legs ache as I stretch them out. It takes a second for me to recall where I am and why. A sweet flicker of a moment before I realize the weight of my heart in my hands is like lead. But it is whole. I breathe deep, feeling the ether stretch my lungs, and let my eyes close for an instant. Atleast it is whole, I remind myself. 

I shift my shoulders and adjust my poorly positioned neck that I know will hurt for days as I stand. I set my heart down by the door and glance out the curtains hesitantly. Even in the dark I can tell no one is there and I don’t know what I expected or what I feel. Disappointment and relief, panic and guilt, thread themselves between each other in knots in my stomach. I breathe deep again, hand finding the cool doorknob, gripping this understanding of the decision I have made. 

The door creaks and the cold of the night washes over me all at once, my breath fogging in front of me. I let my gaze wander across the landscape of the lawn and small porch. There is nothing, no matter how hard I squint into the black, there is nothing. I swallow and glance down where the welcome mat lays at the foot of the front door. Something lays there and I lean down to see what it is. My fingers brush over brittle stems. The flowers are long withered, a few frosted fallen petals remain, but most must have been blow to the wind. I set the corpses of the plants back down and retreat behind the door again, the cold air still clinging to my bones. 

I click the lock shut and rest my forehead against the white entryway. Everything aches and when I swallow it hurts but somehow I feel indescribably lighter. This time the weight on my chest is dense but not unbearable. Like in the aftermath of a disaster, when you’re standing in the midst of the wreckage, everything is awful and terrifying and you might want to fall to your knees and scream but at least the ground has stopped shifting. At least you know what you’re working with. You know the damage has been done and there will be no more anguish of breaking. Just the pain that comes with healing. And of course, it will hurt, but there is promise that it will eventually hurt less. And less. And maybe one day it won’t hurt at all anymore. Maybe. 

I lift my head and turn on the lightswitch. Picking my heart up off the floor, I make my way to the bathroom, where I promise myself warmth awaits me. In the mirror I marvel at my rid rimmed eyes and chapped lips. My wild hair and bear shoulder where my shirt has slipped. I press my fingers against the glass and sigh. I swallow my heart and feel the wound settle inside me taking a moment to readjust to the weight. As I peel my clothes from body, I catch a glimpse of something move in the mirror and my heart skips a beat. But by the time my eyes focus, there is nothing there. My gaze flits around the room but there is nothing. I grip the counter and steady myself repeating this to myself. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. She is dead. There is nothing left of her. Except memory, a disloyal part of me whispers. Except ghost. Except ghost, I agree relecutently. 

I undress and avoid letting my gaze snag in the mirror again. The water is turned on and before long steam fogs the glass anyways. Under the stream the cold melts from my muscles and some stiffness surrenders to the current. Here I sit with the knowledge that she is dead. That I let her die. I may not have been the one that dealt the killing blow but I let her bleed out on my doorstep. And she is gone. She may come back to haunt me occasionally, but I trust these instances will fade eventually with her memory. By trust I mean I hope. But I can not dwell on this. Cannot let the thought of her suffocate me. She is dead and I am not. I am alive. I let her die so I could live. And I will. I will. 

- Love will haunt you long after she is dead

And this is how it begins

When I rediscover the fear of being undeserving of the things I love

When I forget how to hold the poems on my tounge

When I let the words fester and wilt in my veins

Let the unsaid accumulate in the back of my throat

Dead passages stain my skin shades of neglected potential

When I promise myself I'll end

Or I'll begin

But even I do no trust who I have become

Oh the blood I have shed

Oh the youth I have lost amongst the grief

And for who?

In hopes a river of sorrow, a pathway of scars

Would lead love back

To the hollow parts of me

I carved out

To make room for forgiveness

I deny myself

I grow old and wonder if writing poetry has always been this hard

I wonder what I wouldn't sacrifice for a muse

I would give my youth if I had any left to offer

The only thing I have ever wanted more than to be a writer

Is to be loved

But these days I wonder

If there is really a difference

For where do I exist if not between the lines of every poem I have never written

And if I do not write my story who will

And if I do not claw my metaphors into your tear ducts

Who will remember me

Who will remember me

- Hiatus

I am still forgiving myself

For the time I wasted

For the people I loved who did not love me back

And I knew

And I knew

And I am still forgiving myself for the staying

For keeping the loneliness 

In all the parts of me

I swore I'd never let it 

Touch

I am a wound

And the longing it will scar

I am the irony of the guilty begging for mercy before the end

And temptation to give it

The ache of dreaming of the redemption you will never let yourself have 

The agony of an artist without a muse

The desire that overcomes you when your center of gravity shifts on a precipice 

The reminder of how final an edge is

How peaceful the end

I am the nights when missing him is longest 

The false memory of his gentleness 

The phantom promise of what could have been if you let yourself be reduced to repentance 

The curiosity of what it would be like to part flesh and bone, to shed your skin and be reborn without this name

The fleeting hope these seams will split and the clock will stop and the mirrors will shatter 

I am poetic justice in all her cruel beauty 

I am the universe in all her lonely infinity

I am the forgiveness that comes for you when you are least worthy of mercy

Just because I can

And the darkness calls to me with all the names my mother said were too soft for me

The shadows think I am delicate and I let them, try to let them convince me too

That somewhere something may yet still think I am worthy of gentleness 

In the end

When redemption comes for me

He looks so much

Like you

And is not what absolution has always been?

You

Coming back

To me

And in the space carved out for forgiveness 

He plants "I love you, still" instead

And is this not what mercy has always been?

Love where guilt once grew

Burying the hurt in an unmarked grave

A field of second chances blooming over it

Loving him feels like mourning over someone whose alive. If he told me where he buried that boy, I'd spend the rest of my life digging him up.