Broken Bella Donna

{August 27, 2016}   sigh.

Do you remember all of it? I do.

I remember stroking your thigh with the backs of my fingers when I was patting the little one. I remember you placing your hand on my back when I leaned across you to look at your camera that last night. I remember the way your arm felt so perfect around my shoulders on the night that both started it all and yet was the start of the end. How it felt like it had always been there, like we were just waiting time until it found its way back, returning home. I remember how you cupped my hands in yours to warm them around your mug. How you looked at me that time I showed you the bend in my nose. How we stared into each others eyes that dawn on the driveway, and we both knew we were on the cusp of something dangerous, exciting, beautiful and forbidden but so right, so perfect, so real.

I remember every touch, every conversation, every feeling. I remember you. I remember us. No matter how long ago, no matter how much we don’t speak, no matter the distance you put between us with your words, with my behaviour, with your callousness, with this pretence. It’s there. It’s always there. It will always be there. I did not imagine it, you cannot pretend. It’s easy for you to pretend but your actions give you away.

I miss you. I miss us. Occasionally, like tonight these feelings of loss rear up and annihilate me. They tear my soul to shreds. I am left incapable of defiance; I am vulnerable to attack. My guards are not down, they are gone. Dead. Dried up and discarded in the bitter cold wind that blows through my life without you in it. It feels worthless and like nothing, less valuable than soil. My soul is soil, infertile and barren. I will not feel this way in the morning and I know that the brief crying jag I just had will make me feel better. But tonight I will think about your touch, your thoughts, you feelings, your vulnerability, how you let me in to that damaged, shy, lovely part of you. How you let me see you. How we let each other pick over the decay that is our souls, the rot that is our roots, how we allowed ourselves to open up so entirely that the relationship became so… co-dependent. Damaged, incompatible with life. Like nothing so beautiful in its raw ugliness could ever be sustained for long. And you keep roaming back into my life to fuck me up once a year or so, when the feelings within you get too much to bear and you can’t take it one second longer, you can’t bear not to talk to me and spill the scourge that is your true feelings. And then you leave, and leave me to sort through the rubble that is both your emotions and mine whilst you casually go back. Casually. Casualty. You the former, me the latter. And I kneel, sorting through the rubble, stirring the mess and sifting through to identify what I can keep and what needs to be discarded. What I can bring myself to throw away. And then I throw myself away. To the wind. And the winds blow and gently, slowly pour the pieces back together and I build myself again, sometimes from the ground up, sometimes from the top down, always meeting in the middle last. Sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly.

I do wish you weren’t so good at acting like I’m worth nothing.

et cetera