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I Hate The Rain
I hate the rain.
It pours down my cheeks, intermixing with my tears.
I don't know the difference anymore.
They streak my face and sink into my soul.
Are they mine or God's?
Are they my sorrows?
Or are they just the rain?
I hate the rain.
It's long slender fingers stretch down my back, cool against the heat of my flesh.
Endless years of pain and hurt and joy stretch across my skin, weaving patterns that perish at the ends of my shivering fingertips.
I open my mouth, letting the storm drip into my throat, blossoming in my lungs and boiling in my stomach.
I am drowning in the rain.
I am the rain.
I hate the rain.
The way it spreads throughout my body, filling me with the anguish of its broken heart, which barely beats against my own.
Where are they?
The sapphire skies, the diamond clouds? Where is the golden moon, the shimmering stars? Where is the dew that rests on the thorns of the roses that rise when the shattered sun heals itself again at dawn?
Where is life?
I open my eyes.
The rain is gone.
It was never there.
I love the rain.
I hate my broken soul.
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He had broken me down ever so slowly, my fragile heart in his firm grasp. He'd crushed the life out of me. He made me doubt myself over and over again. I wasn't pretty if he didn't think so. I wasn't smart or witty or kind if he didn't think so. I was nothing if he thought so. I was worthless in his eyes and mine. Hence, 2 years of longing and depression. I loved him, you know. I loved him so much I hated him. And he didn't care. He just kept pressing until I finally broke. And that was when I understood that he wasn't the one I hated. I hated myself.
So this poem is dedicated to the broken hearted. The ones that have endured so much, yet have nothing. To those people: my sincerest condolences for the pain and anguish you've been put through. I am deeply sorry.
My advice to you: Have the courage to step out of his grasp before he crushes you completely. Like he did me.
I thought I hated you Jason. And it was only when I gave up fighting that I realized that that wasn't true. I loved you. It was me I hated.
Thank you for giving me that precious discovery, at least.