The Forest We Call Home

It's My Fault

I know my heart won't continue tomorrow. You said you'd stay, but I wake alone. Breaking disappointment with underwhelmed, mute expectations has left my coffin without a mourning audience. Morning light, peeking out from the horizon, will tear my flowing eyes to shreds. Invading my flesh and dashing my spirits against the rocks.

No one will say at my funeral, "Here lies a beloved woman for which many will miss." My clammy body will not be soaked in their tears as they tell me, "We'd never forget the gold heart that shined bright," no noise will resonate in my ears exclaiming, "Here rests a woman of honor, a woman with dignity who will be missed by her children and adoring husband."

Falling raindrops roll across my cheeks as I lay my bloodied heart by my bed. I escape tomorrow's anxiety by leaving it on the bedside table, leaving numbed by my hollow chest. Better to not feel than to wallow in misery.

Smile, they might see you frown. I don't want another talk, a super concerned family member or friend sitting my feeble mind down to patronize me for what I've done wrong, how I've been so low for not living right. Eat less, talk less, go out, be a boy, be a girl, be a woman, be a man. Be not you, be not true, be you, be what we want you to be. Laugh, they might see you cry, don't cry.

So I grow cold, I smile, don't talk, my opinions are not welcome. So I lose myself, I laugh, don't think, my thoughts lead to ideas. Quivering leads to frowning; it is the sign to hide again. Smiling fades eventually, so I time my exposure to the other world. I'm aware of how I feel, not to fix myself, not to make it better, but to know when it is time.

Pain settles like grease and dirt on my skin, and it pollutes like an oil spill. I shut the door, turn a weak lamp on, sit. I sit by my waiting heart. A heart that beats for my company, waiting for the crack on my face. The crack in the mask that breaks at the dawn of the moon. Then it crumbles in my lap, ash, and rot.

The time has come to join my heart with my chest. I hesitate, it'd be best to be drunk, but my youth makes coming by medication difficult. Together once more, to pay the debts, I bury myself in. The emotional turmoil, I seem to always be in.

Giving excuses and dreaming little fantasies that fill my head with synthetic ecstasy. Not as good as a pill or bitter water, but a writer's hand will distract well enough. I'll never pay my debts as long as I escape reality. Escape into pure fantasy. Would you like to come with me?

Permissions are not given, they are taken. The world, and the people in it, narrow their eyes and furrow their brows at the sound of "no," so I always say, "yes." Am I a boy, yes. Am I girl, yes. Am I happy, yes? Am I what you want me to be?

Then I go dark, creeping back into the shadows, and time tells me what I need to know. I never truly meant anything to them. They forgot who I was by the time I said goodbye. Because all they see is a woven mirror of themselves, they don't see me; I don't give them a chance. I leave a minimal trace, so my funeral will be for one, the one in the casket.

I lay deeper into my bed; hands weigh me down into the bedsheets. I try to sleep. I say to myself, "I leave in darkness to see the light." Is it enough to calm my nerves for the night? Perhaps on a good day, but tonight my eyes are open to pessimism, and my escapist mind is shackled in responsibility. I lie to myself too much to believe my own words, so I'll lie awake, staring into the dark, searching for myself. Maybe I'll find her in the empty space between dusk and dawn.