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Static

Bravery Over Heartache

By Vanessa JasekPublished 3 years ago 2 min read
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Your voice resonates in the empty spaces of my brain,

so that I can feel your words bouncing and bounding

off bone and soft tissue,

creating an endless echo that torments me.

The words, sentences, and paragraphs you choose,

all working their way now through my veins,

coursing with a zealous fury,

heating me from the inside out, I begin to sweat.

I feel the hot liquid form behind my eyes,

threatening to spill forth, betraying my façade

of acting like I am not falling into a million static pieces,

as you stand there, staring, waiting.

I try to stare back at you, your face seemingly contorted,

but I avert my gaze to the painting on the wall

of the purple cat that my Dad painted for me when I was 10,

and do my God’s honest best not to scream.

Then you do the inconceivable, you reach out to me,

your long fingers brushing along my arm,

sending electric shocks through my body in such a way

that I’m sure I’m being executed by your touch alone.

I do not just pull back, I recoil, as if you were Satan himself,

attempting to lure me with his devilish charms,

convince me that he really isn’t as evil as I may perceive him to be,

but I’m having none of that artificial act of concern.

As my shock subsides, I feel anger slowly bubbling up from my guts,

working its way from my belly, inching up to my chest,

I wait for it to reach my face, my mouth,

so I can end this game you are playing, one I choose to sit out of.

And so it happens, the anger at your vile display of disregard for me,

for what was once us, comes out of my mouth,

though through some miracle I am able to remain composed

and vomit my anger out in carefully chosen words.

Words such as betrayal, unfaithful, liar, and deceptive.

I gave you words that reflected what you had done,

as I would not give you even a glimmer of softness by

using words such as heartbroken, sad, or grief-stricken.

We stood there as dead air hung between us.

You had delivered your despicable speech,

and in knowing you as I do, likely practiced in front of a mirror,

but that familiarity is over now, you made it so.

I whisper for you to leave.

heartbreak
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About the Creator

Vanessa Jasek

I write words.

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