Constipation Of Love

My Worlds

"Try to believe everything will be alright, and it will be."

I remember my mother saying that.

That thought stayed with me during the surgery.

It was a bleak white room, in a colorless building.

The hospital walls lined with healthcare promos like they told anything but lies.

My mother led me to believe that every story has a meaning.

A truly deep way of thinking that leaves the reader and the writer in awe.

But the writer of my story had a bullshit way of showing that.

When I was twelve I saw my mother permanently put on medication that was forced into her.

She never took them while I was in the hospital.

It made me feel welcome, that she made it as though she was just staying in another home.

A home with no life.

"Mom, when are you coming back?" I asked her.

"Well I never really left."

A warm hand was cast over my cheek.

"Davey, if you ever leave a place that you know you love, don't change. Even if it means that you'll never see that home again." She says.

I wanted to have more moments like that one, I longed for her hand to comfort me again.

But they never did.

She died the next morning.

Now those thoughts comforted me as I stayed in the waiting room.

I thought I should just relive my life again, because your life can be played if you keep all the discs.

When I was nineteen, I met Nora.
The love of my new life. The life without my mother.

Nora kept me close like none ever did. She made me laugh at the saddest moments.

She made me cry, when was happy. She had a wonderful way of playing with my emotions.

She played with them too much.

One night I woke to the sound of a car starting.
Our car.

Nora was gone. It was the early night, because Nora was an early sleeper.

She came home smelling, no, reeking of another lover.

She told me that love was a game.

"Love is not the roller coaster that you've heard about. Its ugly and harsh and cold, and once you realize that love is an illusion, your heart truly feels."

She left that night,I could've stopped her but I watched her leave.

That was a year ago.

Last I heard she was working at a local bar,with a child and two husbands.

But after I heard that, she overdosed on some new hip drug and died.

I cried over, and over again. I pleaded with my past self, begging him not to let her go.

But every time I replayed those discs, they would end the same way.

"He'll be done soon." The nurse said.

I was back in the hospital.

The same one I saw my mother. The same one I rushed to in order to save my lover.