My Lonely Crowded Heart

I hate that you got to walk away from us, while making me do all the walking, but leaving me no choice. Do you understand how confusing that is? You couldn’t possibly as I am a victim of over-thinking. You are the one with the idea. What I have learned is that people do terrible things to each other. I contradicted every outcome, easier for me to imagine you’d hurt me than accept it for what it very well may have been.

What would get you breathing again? We’ll do whatever it takes. “The will to breathe—inspiration.” Well, I’ve got the most crowded house in my lonely heart full of your love. If you ever wanted to borrow the love for yourself, be my guest, maker of the house. There was actually nothing notable about it. No poetry, no grace, nothing beautiful in the way you did it. You ripped it open, shattered it into pieces you were too careless to keep—my fucking heart. Nonetheless, golly, was it memorable. How could I forget, since it’s alive, feeding on my soul every second of every day, teetering on the edge of pain and numb, constantly pulling apart from the two.

Do you see? How much thread you have woven into me. Each string taut a little tighter than the last, a little stronger, so that when my soul is fighting tooth and nail to pull me onto the side of sanity, the thread outlasts. And there, my fucking unpoetic, plain jane, bludgeoned heart, just hangs in an unmelodic limbo. Give me a rhythm. Give me a beat. You know I loved to dance. You know I love your music.

I gave into you incrementally, in an imperceptible kind of way. Every string was every time you told me I was attractive, every time you empowered me to be better, every time you held me close, every time you let me in, every time you confided in me, every time you let me hold you up, and every time you made me believe in you. So many damn pieces, almost endless.

You are my endless, though. I’ve felt that way for a long time and my biggest crime was stealing that from you. I let myself love you. I took the love you had for yourself, maybe. No, I am not that powerful. Yet, there you are and here I am. Are you there? I still believe in you, in us, in it.

I believe you are here for a lot of reasons, countless reasons. But I will gladly list them off for you to eternity. Whatever you say, in my lonely, crowded house of a heart, there’s an unbreakable wont that I am your endless.

It’s you who shocked me more than anyone I’ve ever known. When did you acquire that power? How could you not believe your big ideas are worth pursuing when you told me I was safe and you gained that power day in and day out of including me in them. Then, poof, you wanted to take it all back, no more inclusion, just selfishness, in your words. Why people feel the need to disrupt my life with unattainable things like love, I’ll not understand. I think the tears come, not because I am sad for me, but because I am melancholy for you. You will be ashamed to hear the way I let people talk about me after the way you found yourself fighting hard for me to hear you speak well on me.

It was hard for me to understand then that it was time for me to burn bridges, you know I have, myself, been the bridge that people can walk over, across, around and I stay, trampled. It is time to burn some bridges so that I can light the way. I am tired of thinking I am living through your idea of me. Admittedly, thinking is my drug of choice, and I am addicted. I swear to you, you were guiding me through battling the worst of it, even though at the same time you were battling yourself. You’re so damn strong for that, but I am strong, too. I could have helped you more, had you asked.

There is no blame here, we both made mistakes, but mistakes that had nothing to do with each other. I never made you wait for flowers, while I was trying to plant my own garden. You, admittedly, were not ready to plant one yourself. Yet there you are. Here I am.

I am still growing, making room, and you should know there will be plenty of room for your garden, when you are ready, my love.