I am miserable all of the time. I feel guilty for saying that. I question if it is true. It must not be true. I have certainly had moments, or hours, or even days, where I was not miserable. But, currently, I feel like I am miserable all of the time. My brain is never at peace. I forget what “content” feels like. I am constantly thinking of everything that is wrong. This includes everything from the state of the world to the rough calluses on my heels. I struggle to think of one comforting thought. I search for it like a breath. If I could just think of one nice thought, my brain would be flooded with oxygen, and all of this misery would fade away. I try to picture my friends’ smiles. I try to picture beautiful views I’ve had the privilege of seeing. I try to remember times of laughter. I try to remind myself that I am safe, and I try to conjure a memory of truly feeling safe.

Everything distorts in my brain space. A friend’s smiling face inspires the sadness of missing, and an anxiety that I can never know if anyone truly loves me. Beautiful views are either caught up in bittersweetness and old faces, or inspire only an intense nostalgia and longing. Sometimes I can remember laughing, but the circumstances are always fuzzy, and I know I will never find those circumstances again. I am full of bitterness and disappointment and despair. My emotions are a taint on everything that could be bright or sweet. Tears wait anxiously at the edges of my vision at all times. I feel no hope. I can come up with nothing to look forward to, nothing to be excited for, only anxiety. 

I have been inside for eight months. I hate everyone who goes outside. I hate everyone who gets to hug a loved one. I hate everyone for having loved ones that they know, for sure, love them. What does it feel like? What does it feel like to know? I can still feel the wound from the last time I thought I knew. Sometimes it feels more like a scar, but right now it is a gaping, rotting wound. When I let myself observe it, I am overwhelmed with feelings of humiliation, rage, and despair. I am ashamed that it still hurts. I can see that in the grand scheme of the entire universe, my biggest wound means nothing. I can see others surviving much worse. I can see others overcoming and thriving, making the best of what they were given. I am afraid this is the best I can do. 

You left a gaping wound in me.
I'm still measuring the whole
Of all that we were meant to be.

I knew, I knew, I always knew...
I tried to leave, but I chose not to.

Are the times I'm living in now really so strange?
It feels that way, but aren't all times strange?
Aren't we always on the verge of something?
Couldn't the world always end at any moment?
Isn't humanity always on the edge of extinction?

Why does it hurt so bad again?
Why do I miss him so much?
Why did it touch me when he apologized?
Why do I want to reach out and touch him?

The world is falling apart around me—
nearly literally...
And my tears are for him?
For myself?

If we're not allowed to cry for our own hearts
Then what can we cry for?

The part of me that loved him died.
I shudder from the deepness of the wound.
I feel it from my wrist to my throat.

I really lost myself...
But it felt like finding myself,
and that terrifies me.

My whole life is a series of discovering foundational lies...
That my sense of self was built on shifting sands.

I don't know how to live now,
I realize I'm still dazed by your absence,
I still find myself staring down
a thousand miles at the ceiling
some nights.
But you're a thousand miles away.
Lightyears— nonexistent—
so far.
I want to think of larger things.
How long will I live in this trap
of my own making?
I want to think about so much
more than you.
I want to think about everything
but you
are there in the way
of my thoughts.
I have to trust that my mind
can still unravel some
unfound revelation
yet to be found in you.
I have to trust my mind...

I miss you.

I miss him.
I miss the person I knew.

But you were never there.
Being homesick
with nowhere to call home.

I miss my husband.

My imagined lover.

I miss the false sense of knowing.
I miss everything.

I miss you.
I miss us.
I miss the space I was living in.

I miss myself— the softer version.
I'm so tired now.

I could be light with you—
I thought so...
How does two years hurt so much—
an injury a hundred years old.
The thing I miss the most
is your stomach in the small of my back
in time with your breathing.

I don't know where to hold those moments.
Where in my body do I bury them?

Where do I bury you now that you're gone?

The thrill of goodbye—
to jump from a cliff of that height
the choice of how to go: fast or slow
though terminal velocity remains—
the suspension
that one moment
the split second between universes
the one eon before the end.

Love is mutual delusion.
When I asked if you meant it,
I meant are you committed
—to delude yourself with me
—to this version of the universe
—to lie to ourselves over and over
—to maintain this reality.

I'll never really know
if you lied or simply
misunderstood...
but my freedom is in knowing
that is doesn't matter.

Because I control my reality
and I choose the version
where you betrayed me.
And that is the best revenge I'll ever get.

What it was to please you
the sparkling heat in my chest
—the light that your smile lit in me...

The feeling of being pleasing...
the holy water of your pleasure
cleansed me of all sins...

Only when I please you.

It feels like a huge gash—
from my right collarbone down through my chest.
It's a hole that's restrictive—
an emptiness where air should be.

...Why does it feel so profoundly pathetic to need oxygen?

It wasn't real.
It still feels like shredding air being torn from my lungs.

I want to blame him,
but I think I'm the one
that tore out my heart.
I wanted him to see me so badly—
I had to rip it out— to show him.

There will be no relief next time.
I will not allow myself to invest so much of my peace into another human being ever again.
They play games and have tricks.
And I do not appreciate it.

In the end, maybe we're all just selfish.
No matter how much we pretend to be otherwise. No matter how much we pretend to love another.

We could never truly surrender ourselves in that way.
The way I did with you.
Because I let myself believe that someone else like me really existed... an equal.

I have no equal.

Will I ever forgive myself for letting you think you were better than me?

Maybe.

How long have you gone
longing for the touch of another?

Not one second—
Never, not once.

You see, the truth is,
you are always touching someone.

You see, the truth is
you need
to always
be grabbing on
to someone much stronger than you.

The truth is
that you are
no one without someone
injecting themselves into your empty soul.