Lj idol
How do you say goodbye when you don't want to go?
How do you say goodbye to things. Things collected. Collected for a reason, a plan, a life, your future. How do you pack them up and put them in a box never to be seen again. How do you close the lid without closing yourself?
How do you say goodbye to who you were going to be? To a person you never were. To the image of yourself standing, baby in your arms?
How do you say goodbye to a life? A life not yet lived.
How do you say goodbye?
And the box. The box of items packed up in the attic, stored with remnants of all your past lives, past lives lived and discarded, saved and remembered.
How do you say goodbye?
I don't want to go or let go. I don't want to leave, leave the only place I have with her. And that box, filled for nothing. Collected for nothing. The hours. The hours of thought, of planning, of hoping, of loving, of wanting. For nothing.
All for nothing.
I never saw her, never held her, never gave her a name. But I heard her heart beat. I heard her heart beat. That's all I have. That and a box. A box of wasted time, wasted life, wasted belief. Belief in a future that would never be.
A box
And I never asked. I never fucking asked. Never thought to ask until right now, until this moment. And I realize, I never even considered where she went after. After they took her out of me. What becomes of tiny babies? Tiny dead babies. Too small to recognize, too small to hold, too small to live in this world.
Where do they all go?
And my lips quiver, and it's getting hard to breath and my chest hurts, and and and and it's been I don't even know how many years. How many years of not saying goodbye.
My hands shake and tears dry on the page. And I see the box. In my minds eye I see the box and I don't want to say goodbye. I never want to say goodbye. And I never want to be strong. And I never want to be holding up well. Or hear the words, "everything happens for a reason". I never want to believe in the best, believe everything will be okay, when they tell me that. When they tell me not to worry and I believe because I don't know any better, until I do. Until I'm counting the minutes before I call because I might be wrong. Until I know it's over, and I know that she really is dead.
How do you say goodbye when you don't want to go?
What you want doesn't matter. Whether you say goodbye or not doesn't matter. And everything's shaking, lines are blurring and it doesn't matter. I don't matter. Nothing matters.
And I don't even understand why is this happening now?
You go through life. You go through life and come to discover there are some things you are just not good at, be it carrying a baby, or teaching, or playing pool. And you learn to accept it and you move on. You're supposed to move on.
And that box. That god damned box with the pink bow in the attic, no not the attic, in my mind. It never had a bow. It never was just a box. It was several bags and a few boxes. And I gave it all away years ago.
But that box, that cardboard box with the pink bow, only in my mind, I don't want to open it. I'm afraid to open it. But I have to, I know I have to.
And I stare into space as the wave washes over me, the wave of everything that never was.
For the box is filled, is overflowing, with memories. Memories and feelings. Feelings I didn't feel then. Feelings I don't want to feel now, I cant possibly feel now.
And I'm sitting in the living room sobbing into my own hands, and my 8 year old comes in and asks me what's wrong.
And he hugs me real tight and real close and buries his head in my neck and whispers I love you mommy and my heart is breaking, breaking into a million tiny pieces and I hug him so tight to me and I don't want to let go and I don't want to let go, I never want to let go. But I will have to say goodbye to him and to her because my arms aren't strong enough, I'm not strong enough to hold onto them forever.
But how do you say goodbye when you don't want to go?
Maybe you don't.
Maybe you never do.
How do you say goodbye to things. Things collected. Collected for a reason, a plan, a life, your future. How do you pack them up and put them in a box never to be seen again. How do you close the lid without closing yourself?
How do you say goodbye to who you were going to be? To a person you never were. To the image of yourself standing, baby in your arms?
How do you say goodbye to a life? A life not yet lived.
How do you say goodbye?
And the box. The box of items packed up in the attic, stored with remnants of all your past lives, past lives lived and discarded, saved and remembered.
How do you say goodbye?
I don't want to go or let go. I don't want to leave, leave the only place I have with her. And that box, filled for nothing. Collected for nothing. The hours. The hours of thought, of planning, of hoping, of loving, of wanting. For nothing.
All for nothing.
I never saw her, never held her, never gave her a name. But I heard her heart beat. I heard her heart beat. That's all I have. That and a box. A box of wasted time, wasted life, wasted belief. Belief in a future that would never be.
A box
And I never asked. I never fucking asked. Never thought to ask until right now, until this moment. And I realize, I never even considered where she went after. After they took her out of me. What becomes of tiny babies? Tiny dead babies. Too small to recognize, too small to hold, too small to live in this world.
Where do they all go?
And my lips quiver, and it's getting hard to breath and my chest hurts, and and and and it's been I don't even know how many years. How many years of not saying goodbye.
My hands shake and tears dry on the page. And I see the box. In my minds eye I see the box and I don't want to say goodbye. I never want to say goodbye. And I never want to be strong. And I never want to be holding up well. Or hear the words, "everything happens for a reason". I never want to believe in the best, believe everything will be okay, when they tell me that. When they tell me not to worry and I believe because I don't know any better, until I do. Until I'm counting the minutes before I call because I might be wrong. Until I know it's over, and I know that she really is dead.
How do you say goodbye when you don't want to go?
What you want doesn't matter. Whether you say goodbye or not doesn't matter. And everything's shaking, lines are blurring and it doesn't matter. I don't matter. Nothing matters.
And I don't even understand why is this happening now?
You go through life. You go through life and come to discover there are some things you are just not good at, be it carrying a baby, or teaching, or playing pool. And you learn to accept it and you move on. You're supposed to move on.
And that box. That god damned box with the pink bow in the attic, no not the attic, in my mind. It never had a bow. It never was just a box. It was several bags and a few boxes. And I gave it all away years ago.
But that box, that cardboard box with the pink bow, only in my mind, I don't want to open it. I'm afraid to open it. But I have to, I know I have to.
And I stare into space as the wave washes over me, the wave of everything that never was.
For the box is filled, is overflowing, with memories. Memories and feelings. Feelings I didn't feel then. Feelings I don't want to feel now, I cant possibly feel now.
And I'm sitting in the living room sobbing into my own hands, and my 8 year old comes in and asks me what's wrong.
And he hugs me real tight and real close and buries his head in my neck and whispers I love you mommy and my heart is breaking, breaking into a million tiny pieces and I hug him so tight to me and I don't want to let go and I don't want to let go, I never want to let go. But I will have to say goodbye to him and to her because my arms aren't strong enough, I'm not strong enough to hold onto them forever.
But how do you say goodbye when you don't want to go?
Maybe you don't.
Maybe you never do.