So just let me hang from the gallows of your heart.
For all the reasons those left behind are; Counting how many times I failed you every day. Thinking about what I could do differently each minute. Missing you every second.
Its name shall forever be placed upon your lips by mine,
its meaning forever etched upon your skin.
I'll tie its presence around your heart like twine,
To remind you of all the dark places you have been.
There it shall weather the whimsies of your secrets and soul,
It will rise and fall with the tides of your inner melodies.
And when you finally bow under the weight of its control,
Only then will you be the keeper of my memories.
I'm 32 years old and according to my calculations, I've spent 174 hours and 35 minutes of my life crying in the shower. You would probably assume that by now I would have mastered some technique for it. Yet here I am; ankles together, knees bent to support my elbows while I hold my head in my hands-allowing for the water to funnel off of my head and cheeks and to form two constant streams that pour down between my knees. My tears blend with the perfect stream so that it is impossible to discern what is washing over me from what is pouring out of me. Maybe I do have it down after all.
Wouldn't my father be proud.
Compared to my mother, I'm what you would call a regular slacker. By the time she was my age she had been married twice legally and once my common law. She had also been divorced once and widowed twice; once legally and once by murder. She made crying a dangerous art, something to be admired but not imitated. Her reward for all of this was two children with eyes so wide from wonder and innocence you could see their intention before they thought it. Fortunately, or rather unfortunately, that wouldn't last long.
The water is still raining down upon me. It has for so long now that I'm starting to hallucinate being in the womb again. Not really. I'm actually imagining being slowly washed away: each drop of hot water taking a part of me down the shiny metal drain, piece by piece, until I'm gone, like a sliver of soap left and forgotten at the bottom of the tub.
I know eventually, this moment will have to end. At some point, the pace at which I can wring the tears from my soul will be faster than my the speed at which my being can craft them and, like a well, I will momentarily run dry.
I'm wounded. I wish I felt like that was ok.
My soul is mourning for something my body doesn't yet comprehend. Or is it the other way around...
Going to Canada this weekend. Not as excited as I could be. Oh well. I'll have fun whether I like it or not.
If I could stitch my busted heart together with words, I'd use the lies that you told me. That way, it could never be tricked again.