Evolved

Sometimes this coursing blood
runs redder than a sea
of battles fought and sadly lost
amidst endless debauchery.

Sometimes these veins constrict
to thin this wild life
of incessant pain and desolation,
of misery and strife.

Sometimes these bones they weaken
beneath so rough a skin
that pales with every sunrise,
that hardens from within.

Sometimes this heart it shatters,
breaks, crumbles in this chest;

adverse to palpitations,
begs, pleads, for simple rest.

Sometimes these barren eyes
mirror sand and ardent flame;
they glass with deprivation,
and will never be the same.

Certainty

I could have gotten married.
I could have had kids.
I could have woken up to his face forever.
I could have been loved for as long as I live.
I could have had intimacy and commitment.

If I'd stuck it out,
if I'd pretended,
I wouldn't have fooled him
or myself.
But we would have gone on.

To marry.
To have kids.
To wake up beside each other forever.
To have intimacy and commitment.
And something like love.

But I gave it all up.

I broke it.

For me.
For him.
For no guarantee that I'd ever find someone
who could ever love me
like he did.

I threw it all away.

For happiness.

Worth

What is a dangerous level of trust? How does one become so connected to another human being that they speak their heart and their mind without regard for clarity or even consequence?

It isn't love. At least not between the two people in question. It is possible that one is in love, or thinks one is, and the other is merely a creature of the moment, endowed with good intentions and marred by curiosity.

We crave existence, to be heard, to be known. But in our existential struggle, there is little time to consider the hearts we break. They pile up, time the only salve. We march forward, the means to heal beyond our grasp and understanding. We become numb to our futility. If time is the only answer, we are nonobligated to help, to stop, to fix. If we even do care enough about someone to pause and ask their forgiveness, what does one make of that?

I will say it again, it isn't love. Not for the person who beseeches forgiveness. It is more likely self-preservation, survival. With all the bodies we leave behind us, we must never feel guilty or we are ruined. If those we hurt say all is forgiven, our consciences are clear. We do not have to self-reflect or hate ourselves longer than necessary. We are free to tumble through life as we always have, selfishly, single-minded, but having no direction.

What happens to those then who forgive? If they forgive falsely, that is, their pardon was insincere, they are eaten alive inside by grief, an overwhelming disgust for themselves, and in the worst of cases, by love.

The person who honestly forgives, who cannot imagine not forgiving, what does that say about her? Is she weak? Does she not mind being used then stepped on? Is she more or lesser for forgiving? Is she a lover or a fool? Perhaps both. What doors does her choice open? Is she no longer strong? Has she invited those who would harm her into her home, her heart? Is she to forever be used?

How long until laughter, honest happiness though it may be at the time, gives way to tears? The pain is there. She can feel it. It never leaves. A knot in her center that tightens when she remembers, thinks about whether forgiveness shows weakness or strength.

What is she worth now?

She daydreams more than ever, slipping into her thoughts unawares, waking from surreality seconds or minutes later under the impression that she has wasted the entire day.

Always the bridesmaid but never the bride.

The best friend but never the lover.

What's wrong with her? What is she missing? If she is trustworthy, intelligent, humorous, independent, caring, selfless, and, dare I say it, maybe even the slightest bit beautiful, what is stopping any sensible man from loving her?

It must be something wrong with her. The alternative is that there is something wrong with every man she's ever met. And how, scientifically, could she accept that as true?

So she forgives them. All of them. It comes from an honest place and makes her heart hurt less. But she always dreads the next one to come along and use her for fun, for distraction, as an anesthetic for their own misery. She is tired of opening up only to slowly sew herself back together. She worries it will always be the same.

After everything, there is still a very small hope within her that she is wrong.

One cannot help but think how much hope had been there to begin with, how much has been extinguished until this point, and how much more she can take before what is left goes out.