(no subject)
It hurts
It hurts and he doesn't even care.
And it's been so long he could have bathed in my tears by now.
God knows I've cried enough. And yet it still hurts.
But like a dolt, I'm selfish with this pain, won't let anyone take it away from me because it's the last thing he gave me.
The only thing he'll ever give me.
So I can't give it up. Like the hope that proceeds it, is entwined with it. Maybe one in the same.
But I won't relinquish this, so it re-opens, it festers, and it hurts.
There isn't anyone to blame but myself.
Seems I don't have the wits to call an end to this.
Too stupefied by the inconsistencies with what used to be.
Too enmeshed in the past I've lost all view of the future, so I'm paralyzed in the present.
But somehow it doesn't mean I can't feel.
And I've come to know every contour of this ache. The entirity of its shape, the hues of violet and blue, as familiar as a lover's face. I keep it close to my breast like a loved one. It's my child. Nurtured with the bitter milk of tears.
Not our child. He doesn't care, remember? My child. The only fruit his seed ever bore within me.
And its every moment of existence hurts. But it belongs to me, and it is proof.
I am capable of love.
Because it hurts.
It hurts and he doesn't even care.
And it's been so long he could have bathed in my tears by now.
God knows I've cried enough. And yet it still hurts.
But like a dolt, I'm selfish with this pain, won't let anyone take it away from me because it's the last thing he gave me.
The only thing he'll ever give me.
So I can't give it up. Like the hope that proceeds it, is entwined with it. Maybe one in the same.
But I won't relinquish this, so it re-opens, it festers, and it hurts.
There isn't anyone to blame but myself.
Seems I don't have the wits to call an end to this.
Too stupefied by the inconsistencies with what used to be.
Too enmeshed in the past I've lost all view of the future, so I'm paralyzed in the present.
But somehow it doesn't mean I can't feel.
And I've come to know every contour of this ache. The entirity of its shape, the hues of violet and blue, as familiar as a lover's face. I keep it close to my breast like a loved one. It's my child. Nurtured with the bitter milk of tears.
Not our child. He doesn't care, remember? My child. The only fruit his seed ever bore within me.
And its every moment of existence hurts. But it belongs to me, and it is proof.
I am capable of love.
Because it hurts.