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April 1, 2008

Fall Into My Tragedy

The concept was simple enough. I carved the worst kind of four letter word into the tender, white flesh of the inside of my wrist, as a constant reminder to never go a day with out trying to figure out what the real meaning of the word was. He didn’t exactly see it that way.

 

 

 

He thought it meant something entirely different. He thought it meant I hated myself, which was far from the truth. He thought it meant that I couldn’t control my emotions; he thought it meant that I was screaming for attention.

 

 

 

And then there were the talks. He said by talking about it, it would get better. I didn’t see the connection between talking and my skin healing, so the idea was dropped.

 

 

 

Yesterday it was particularly bad. He had left for the night, and I had the feeling again. That pressure, the nagging echo in my chest that needed to escape. I didn’t hear him open the door. I didn’t hear him walk to my room, but I saw his eyes grow wide.

 

 

 

He rushed to the bathroom. He came back with band-aids and alcohol, and busied himself with my right arm. I was close to a different kind of sleep, one that I had never even imagined. I could feel it start at my feet, and twine its way up my legs. It felt so peaceful, and yet so permanent. Then it stopped. He picked me up off my floor and put me on my bed.

 

 

 

He had said nothing. He never once did again. He had written me a note, which I had found safety-pinned to my pillowcase. He had left me, for all that I had "put him through", while I was "trying to figure myself out".

 

 

 

I knew then what the word meant. It is that pain in your chest, the swelling of your heart. It was the echo of a thousand words you wished you had said.

 

 

 

 

 

It was love.
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Because I am completly inept at actually writing my feelings down as they happened to me, I made this up in about two minutes. It won't ever be a story, its nothing more than a journal entry from one of the many characters I made up in my head.

 

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