To Write Love

December 18, 2008
Laying in the dark, on my bed, when my world is dark, silent, and fast asleep, I cry, silently, too, so not to wake anything. Hot, salty tears stream down my face, into my hair, pooling on my pillow, but I am oblivious to it. Something else occupies my mind. My thoughts. They flit through my head, coming and going, like the quiet breathes I take and release. These are not happy, warm thoughts, with cute, fuzzy bunnies, or magical rainbows with pots of gold at the end, no. They are dark thoughts. Thoughts that most people fear more than anything else, thoughts that nobody ventures into and comes out of the same. Dangerous thoughts. Filled with anger, pain, sadness, tears, blood, emptiness, black. Thoughts that make me want to scream, scream, scream and never ever stop. Scream as loud as I possibly can, loud enough to wake the entire world from its peaceful slumber. Just scream. But I can’t. People would wonder why I was screaming. Wonder, and stick their noses into other peoples’ business. And I wouldn’t tell them. I can’t. Not them. Not anybody. They wouldn’t understand. Nobody would.

Dead tired, and willing for sleep I know will not come, I lay. New tears form, bigger, harder, stronger, and the emotional beast that twists and claws inside of me grows, lashing out, as I remember what got me here, what caused these things, these monsters, to form. Him. He did this to me. Yes, you may be shaking your head at me in shame, telling me that he’s not worth it, but save it. I’ve heard that a million times already. Like I said, you wouldn’t understand. The many times he held and comforted me, every time he kissed me, slowly, passionately, whispering into my ear that he loved me, that there was no other, dashed. Gone. A lie. He says he still loves me, that I will always be his, but I know about her, what he is doing with her. The other girl. The one that is better than me. I hate him for that. Red fills my vision, blinding me completely, causing my jaw to clench, and my hands to turn into fists, my nails digging into my palms. It fades as quickly as it had come, as I realize something. That I still love him. That I can’t let him go. Not that easily.
What makes everything worse is that he knows everything he is doing to me. Leaving me a remiss of chaos and self-destruction. He knows, and he doesn’t care. Leaving me to fend for myself, broken and bleeding, letting me fall. But I still love him. I told you, nobody could possibly understand. I don’t even understand. A new wave of pain washes over me as my inner emotional beast strikes again, this time a direct attack to my heart.
I can’t take it any more. I throw back my covers, rub at my tear-stained face, and pick my way to my desk, where I rummage around until I find what I’m looking for. Scissors. I open them up, bring them to my arm, and show just how much I love him.

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