Musings of the Brokenhearted

You killed me.

Hello.

You need not know my name nor what I look like. What I have to say is not of the vain sorts. I've gotten myself into a bit of a mess. To tell you the most honest truth, it's a f*****g mess. Fellow, I speak to you because you happen to be the only one listening, reading, living the words typed in front of you. 

I find myself not only lost, but at a loss of words. I cannot tell if it is fury that defines my recent stages of condition or the crippling sadness that haunts my every thought. It is the source of misery, the handicap, that paralyzes me, leaves me unable to lift myself from my bed. Instead of the real world, I watch a relay of memories before my closed, sunken eyes. 

These memories kill me. They leave me to feel the saddest pain, the worst of any kind. As if any wound, any deep, bleeding wound would feel worse! If I could trade it, I would beg to be stabbed.

But, you see, I have been stabbed. I have been stabbed by those who we were meant to fight the sword. My very loved ones, my refuge in times of vulnerability--they are false. They cease to exist yet all at once never were. My refuge was the ambush. And what a fool I was, I tell you, what a fool! To open up to someone so fully, to strip yourself of all inhibitions, of all fears, of all tentativeness and hesitance. To love someone so completely, so flawlessly, so dependently. All at once, it is dangerous and beautiful, soft yet deadly. But in order to love like such, you must rid yourself of any suspicions. You must allow yourself no room for possible resentment, hypothetical failure and pain. And I tell you, fellow of mine, I absolutely did that. I loved the boy with all of me, unlike anyone ever before. And like the infatuated gal I was, I neglected to see obvious truth before me. I was blinded by such strong amazement. I was in awe. 

Upon discovering the acts--which I will not speak of--that nearly killed me, I held my tongue and bit it until I could taste the iron in my mouth. No, no, no!, I had wallowed. Oh, how could my dear love do this? What I never wanted to see--up until I had grown jaded to love and the entirety of the world's evils I "knew"--was the filth that had been hiding under the rug all along. It had been there since the dawn of time. There never was this boy whom I loved. He had never been "good", there was no dark and uncontrollable transformation to the "bad". Besides, life is not composed of good and bad, but rather dream and reality, lies and truth. He had voluntary decided to accept my love, my kisses, my warmth, my embraces, my secrets--and parts of my flesh I can to this day never take back--but in the end only to toss them aside, stomped on and soaked in water of the sewer. Of course he would claim he never did--and I suppose this is true. He never rejected my love, he simply took more of it than he should have, than he deserved, and while he was at it, took some from other gals as well. I won't even call them women. More like filthy harlots. 

How someone can take and accept so much of another--willingly--and still feel as though they are lacking appalls me. And if these men indeed claim they feel as though nothing is lacking from us, then why do they seek more from others? Is it like trying on an outfit, wanting to experience different fabrics, cuts, colors? Was my flesh, brown eyes, and trembling softness not enough? That was the question that I ruminated on for endless suns and moons. I stood in the toilet room and stared myself up and down trying to find an obvious flaw. And I found many, but was that really the cause? (Was that all of it?) Had I been too curt, too unloving in my times of need, was I not desiring sexually? These questions tortured me as much as the memories that danced before my drowsy eyes every morning and night. 

So, friend of mine, believe me when I say murder is not always a gruesome physical act. 

Because I was murdered, quite long ago actually--it took me a while to realize it. 

Author's Note