Love hurts

My ceiling fan.

I stare up at you through the tears brimming up in my eyes.
My ceiling fan has seen me at my worst.
These four walls hold my screams,
both in pleasure and despair.
My laughter has seeped into the floorboards of my room and is buried within the vinyl of it.
I don't understand why I grieve so much.
I don't know why my brain eats me up alive at night.
I feel things so deeply and I want to turn it off sometimes.
The thoughts.
The feelings.
The memories that fill me up to the brim.
I'm mourning the loss of you again and you are still here.
I'm good at letting you go and letting you get to me.
And yet I still can't fully let you go.
It's part of the deepest parts of me.
So,
I stare up at my ceiling fan,
the dust that covers the corners of it,
the darkness blanketing my room,
the stillness of the night,
And pray that this nightmare of mourning is over.
I pray that when I wake up,
I'll forget about tonight
and hopefully
I'll be able to clean the blades of my ceiling fan
And start new again.
Until the dust settles again and the cycle repeats.
My ceiling fan and me.