Waiting for the end while looking at my hands.
People keep telling me to seek therapy or professional help. Yet I find myself violently against that notion. It’s as if my brain doesn’t want to get better. But my heart wants to love again. Love is my equivalent to being alive, and right now, I’m on the fast track to no pulse.
I’ve had fantasies of confronting the last true love I had. The problem with that is I know how it will end. It will start possibly verbally violent. I’ll scream at her that I loved her… tears welling in my eyes because I know, even after four and a half grueling years that she hated being screamed at… and she will say something like, “No. You never loved me” in such a quiet whisper that my storm will quell sk I can hear her every word, like she was a commander on a battlefield.
And she’ll walk away.
“Longstride!” I’ll call after her, hoping- no- praying she stop for just a moment, “I loved you more than life itself. I kept every picture and every keepsake. I never forgot you. And since you’re going, I know I can go now. Thank you for setting me free, Grim..” as I plunge a dagger through my bleeding heart.
…or what is left of it.