Is this all that we have left?
Are we nothing but good love gone bad?
A strong bond, torn to shreds?
Were we doomed from beginning to end?
Was I not enough for you?
Do all friendships end in heartache?
Was our good, good enough to outweigh the pain?
Can I do anything to change the outcome?
Or must I let you go?
“It’s okay. I forgive you.”
It’s a soft, half-blurred version of truth,
I say what I have to.
And you don’t seem to mind, because we continue to slide by.
You know? You’re right, I’m the only one who did anything wrong.
It’s always my fault.
I’m the only one to blame.
You graciously forgive me again.
I thank you for your understanding, and I turn my cheek to await your strike,
For which I know you’ll never apologize,
But I will, because that’s what it takes to get by.
PLEASE NOTE that this is no way meant to be a glorification of abuse or violence. This is a personal, but semi-fictional account of a mentally abusive friendship. Please, if you’re in an abusive relationship, whether it be a friendship or a domestic situation, please seek counsel. You don’t have to live like that, no matter what anybody else has told you, or what you may have told yourself. You are worthy of getting out of that situation. You are worthy of help.
When I was young you taught me to be strong.
You told me nothing was there in the darkness that wasn’t there in the daylight, and I believed you.
But I see dark eyes at the end of my bed now, reminding me that you’re not here anymore, and I realize I was only strong because you were.
I see something in this speckled mirror,
They said my reflection ought to appear,
Though I see hands, hair and eyes that resemble mine,
I do not see myself inside.
There’s but a hollowed shell staring back at me, its movements stiff and cold,
The face, the body, the ears look like me,
Oh where, where is my soul?
Surely I have not become this thing, a half-dead porcelain doll,
But when I smile, that thing smiles,
When I stand still, it does nothing at all.
“It must be me.” There is no other explanation. Who else could it be? I’m sitting on the bathroom floor alone.
“It must be me.” But I don’t feel my lips move this time, instead I see hers taking my words, and I hear her voice instead of my own.
“What have you done to me?” This voice belongs to me but I feel it rather than hear it, the room remains silent until she speaks.
“What have you done to yourself?” Her voice is faraway, and yet it’s everywhere. It’s gentle, and it’s terrifying. I feel like she could carry me away.
“We are trapped on separate sides of shiny silver glass, and I wonder if I could climb through if you would become me, or if I would become you.” She says, as her shoe arrives safely on my side, followed by a leg, an arm, a shoulder.
It feels a bit like I’m falling from the highest of heights into the deepest depths of darkness,
Every so often I catch hold of something and pull myself onto a ledge, but my ledges are faulty and they always let go, and I find myself plummeting into the darkest of holes.
But what if I believed that Your arms were long enough to reach me and pull me up, and You were strong enough to hold me?
Would I allow You to save me from my fiery death? Would I let myself be taken from this familiar darkness?
There’s no point in denying because I guess You already know, sometimes I enjoy the falling. After all, it’s far easier to fall than it is to climb, but You’re not asking me to climb up out of this hell by myself, You’re asking me to stop falling, stand still and wait for You to carry me home.
So if You’re listening now, I’m waiting here on what appears to be the last shaky ledge before I hit the ground.
If You’re listening now, I believe Your arms are more than strong enough, and I believe You’ll help me out.
Could we please just run away?
Where no one would ever find us,
Where the sun shines bright and the stars shine even brighter.
Nobody cares, who we are.
Let’s run.
At three in the morning when the world stops turning, we’ll run.
And we won’t come home ‘til the world tips over and everything falls back into place.
Let’s run.
Where nobody finds us,
Our past is behind us,
Through wheat fields under silver stars that shine,
We’ll run, just you and I and a dark blue sky.
When the voices won’t stop,
We can’t take anymore,
The world still spins in meaningless circles, tearing holes in fragile hearts,
I’ll come up to meet you,
Reach my arms out to hold you,
I’ll never let go, let’s just run.
Where nobody finds us,
Our past is behind us,
Barefoot on dirt roads at night,
Cool wind in our hair,
Under pale moonlight.
We’ll run, just you and I and a majestic black sky. We’ll run.
Nobody will find us,
Our past is behind us,
On the beach being kissed by the sun,
On our backs we lay laughing,
Fireflies surround us at dawn,
Just you and I and a pale pink sky. We’ll run.
I know it’s a little scary,
To leave what we’ve known behind,
But when day turns to evening and evening to morning,
All I want is to get away.
To someplace where nobody finds us,
Our past? Far behind us.
Where the days are longer,
Our hearts are stronger,
Where the sun shines brighter and the weight gets lighter,
We’ll run ’til our legs give way.
And then it’ll just be you and I, falling under a deep blue sky.
So can we please just run away? Where no one will ever find us…
I paralyze myself with thoughts of time,
It’s seven am, my bus comes at nine.
I have so much to do today,
But the hours soon will slip away,
I’ll need to go, and I guess then, I’ll be angry that the hours end.
So instead I sit and watch seconds go by,
It’s seven thirty, and I don’t have enough time.
I won’t eat, I won’t sleep.
The clock, my gaze will keep.
I won’t think, I won’t dream,
My heart is scared to beat,
Every second that passes is a closer second to The Next Event.
I’m paralyzed by thoughts of time,
It was seven thirty, and now it’s nine.
Nothing got done today, as I watched the hours fade to gray.
And tomorrow, I fear it’ll be the same, as my life slowly slips away.
I don’t know why I am this way, but I know I’ve wasted time today, which when I really stop and think, is what I tried to avoid by watching time.
A Rambler In Bloom 