Skeptic 99

Why so skeptical

Of my love, my love?

I know it’s bloody

And hard to look at

All gore and past and tissue cut from a cavity of flesh. Deep arteries.

But

What do you expect my heart to look like

When I rip it out for you again and again and hold it in my outstretched palm for you to grasp?

What do you expect?

My hands are stained red

I know that sends your mind spinning

But what else am I to do?

I’m seeping out begging for your healing touch.

All that greets me are those icicle eyes, diamonds pressed for millennia under the pressure of the earth’s core. (There was once that promise of warmth.)

And that horrified frown of puckered lip I so delicately once held.

You say you’re tired. You’re hurting. I understand and I give you all the hurt you need to hold.

You say you know your way around a body and that my misunderstanding of you is based on my lack of that same knowledge. But you grasp aimlessly at this form until I have tears in my eyes.

Cardiac arrest is real too and the human heart (as much of human as mine is) does not survive outside of the body for long.

I peel my skin back in layers hoping you can see the bone that holds me together.

You just see pain that needs to be numbed.

I crack my ribs open, slice my belly for you, spill my bowls in the dirt and all you see is a mess you must clean up.

I snap my tendons to play you music, beat my chest

But the soft popping, sharp pings aren’t even a melody anymore

Why do I do this?

How much longer can I break myself to prove to you that I am like you. That I am human. That I am soft and kind and scared too.

Scar tissue is thicker than flesh. Bones heal back stronger than before. You call me callous when I’m finally put back together enough to function and dismiss the point of me tearing myself apart like it was some theatrical act of infatuation.

I slither back into my self as to not squish under the pressure. I sew myself back up. I bruise too easily to stay bare for so long.

It hurts too bad when you see my dedication and care

as a means to harm and traumatize.

The worst part of all is I know why now. I understand why but can not convince you of this, as it is caught as just another attack.

You are skeptical of my love because I can’t be her. That ghost made of neurotransmitter and electrons and the pills you swallowed that day.

I’m sorry I can’t be as good as the me in your head. She is safe in there — not nearly as gnarled. Not nearly as ugly. Not nearly as harsh.

Not nearly

as skeptical

Of your love.