Sometimes I feel like my heart breaks every night. When I am alone I can hear the sound. I always try too fucking hard. Everything that comes out of me is a product of some bloody fight. How humiliating it is to need someone who doesn’t need you. I have never been helpless. I have never felt weak and stripped of dignity until I’ve felt this. And of course in the midst of love bordering on sacrifice, I am still trying to repair my pride. I am still committed to preservation. Or maybe not. Maybe I am as selfless, as without self, as I feel in the thick of pain, when he tells me that it has gone away, and when he says that he’s bored of me, like I am some toy after all. It is possible that the spot in my core that feels hollow where it once felt whole, in the days of barefoot childhood, is where my ‘self’ once lived. But now it’s died.
How can a heart break if it isn’t there? Sometimes I feel the ghost of it flutter when an old friend brings chai tea to me on a night when the paint is peeling off the walls in my chest, but did I ever feel anything at all if it is gone a moment later?
Everything that I know about myself ends with a question mark. It makes me want to fall to the ground and with two fists full of earth and two lungs full of air I want to shout LET ME BE ENOUGH, let me be enough, for him, for me, for the moments at the end of my life– but it would be wasted breath, a waste of earth and energy. I have so much growing up to do, and yet my youth died a long time ago.