June 21, 2021
I want to meet myself from five years ago. I am imagining the look on her face when I tell her secrets I shouldn't. I pretend to be shocked when she tells me what she's going through, as if it wasn't me who made all those decisions. As if it wasn't me who wanted to feel it all even if it killed me. To be friends with her wouldn't be easy. She's just so hard to talk to, so hard to understand, so hard to like. Every choice she faces, she always seemed to pick the harder one. She always seemed to want to take strides forward, but she'd end up falling back. Anyone could extend that helping hand, and she would take it if she knew how. I'd be gentle with her, I would. Because she thinks she knows her most ruinous pain, the darkest she will ever feel in her life. She thinks she's had the worst of it. And I wish I could tell her just how wrong she is, just how good she has it then. How easy all of that should have been. She'll never know how hard she's going to make it for herself five years later. But I don't want to spoil it. I don't want to prepare her for two separate heartbreaks of two separate meanings, but both equally as painful as the other. No one prepared me, so I won't prepare her. What an awful paradox that is.
R.K.
YOU ARE READING
Holeheart
PoesíaI am the forgiver. I am the destroyer. I'm not at fault, but I deserve to be. Poetry and Prose Volume V 2021 DISCONTINUED
