Your crippling depression brings all of those around you to their knees and so you’ve turned to holding the whip of superficiality and now that’s all that you live for. You know this is about you and yet you pretend to misunderstand and you believe yourself above the clouds, immaculate because of your strife. In your eyes, you were dealt a lot in life that should have never been dealt to you and sure, you’ve been kind… to those outside of your circle—those who are appeased like fickle gods by vanity. I hope you know that you were needed, but somehow those that needed you earned a lesser value than those that emotionally obscured you, emotionally abused you. I also needed you once, but now I realize that I don’t need much at all and I guess I’ll keep living my life because I cannot stand to wait for your affection. Perhaps we’ll never form a deep connection and on our deathbeds will lie unfinished business, but I guess that’s the price to pay for broken families.
I guess I’ll write to see if I can evoke the thoughts within my heavy head and chest. I guess I’ll see if the world isn’t too dark to face in this tired state of mind. My love is heavy and my eyes are hot and damn it’s hard when the past is dredged up. It’s one of those moments where everything triggers and I just want to move to Portugal. But fuck I learned to love and now I’m scared of what is coming around. I don’t really pray but if I did I’d ask for another day, another dollar but only if I keep the same lover and if he’d know what it’s like to be sad that it wouldn’t be penetrating deep like it does to my core. Will tomorrow be a Brand New day that I can face as I open my windows to let in the sky and a mosquito or too? I guess I’d pray for forgiveness for all of the times that I wasn’t enough and that I decided to give up instead of move onwards into the day that tomorrow could be. It’s a pandemic, really, the way things end up with slight infection catching on and infesting the tendrils leading to the veins coming out of your heart (is that right?). It hurts me to hurt you but fuck am I sad sitting on my bathroom floor under the burning water. Maybe I’ll feel something.
It was the first day of limited conversation and prophetic longing. The first day at the bed laying in emptiness and hidden worlds of turmoil. It was the 21st day of the year that felt like the last paragraph at the end of a book’s chapter that released its reader on a sad note. It was cold in this room, an iciness in the Florida weather and my daughters of the moon kept their own company. But you see, here I lay thinking of my days and heart shrinking.
There is strength in knowing that you’ve traveled far and true in the realms of what it means to be a human in hurt. There’s a certain relief at the resignation of knowing that the Earth will continue to orbit around a sun that has yet to burn out for eons to come. There is purity in knowing that the wind can quell your sorrows and place your anxieties to sleep if you give it that power. There is a cleansing in cold rain drenching your clothes in a downpour if you lend your muscles to the power of nature so that they may relax. No matter what tribulations you journey through remember that your heart is still beating with the hum of the Earth and your breath inundates your lungs like a transparent and active ocean.
Underneath the full moon I muster all the strength required of oceans to swish into shores in darkness. The sands by my feet are velvet as my night-lantern guides me from the sky. Goddess power flows through outstretched hands, permeating the salt crystals in the air. My skin glistens with dew and light and within me a light shines outward. A third eye opens and looks steadily into the shadows cast by the moonlight and within me courses knowledge of secret enchantments long-quieted by witches securing the secret of their craft. They tell me know the things I must know. The shadows come into light—moon goddess.
Sometimes I’m tired of writing about the feeling of love, but then I remember lips on my forehead, your fingers through mine as we walk underneath the sunshine. I remember your eyes so light and uplifting gently gazing at me with adoration and I wonder if damn… might this ever be…
Then I hear your voice reminding me that I am special and it affirms what I already know of you, that I like you for more than who you are, but also for what you represent, what you stand for. I love that you are heavy with convictions, yet sometimes budge when I challenge you and it makes me smile to know that together there is never a boring moment. I could sit there with you with my head on your shoulder and my fingers running through your chest and arms as I listen to your soft voice in the night.
Here I thought that I was done writing stories about love.
Always ask for more and maybe you will receive your hopes and dreams with open arms. Ask for depth and perhaps you will become an ocean full of life and cycles. Seek new heights and you might be like the moon in her godlike trance and slow transitivity. Just ask and maybe you will receive.
The body is a flower, sensitive at times and course at others. After the rain, leaves are replete with water from their veins and at others they are thin and fragile. My body, a ghost orchid waiting for its pollinator.