You mentioned nothing this morning about my call to you, how it startled the sky and gave birth to sunshine that I somehow stumbled into despite potholes of worthlessness- my heels had caught on gravel, my voice rising to hysteria, and each automobile parading had reminded me it's harder to move on from the past than simply changing lanes or peaking into new street ways.
I cannot begin to illustrate the utter foolishness words can convey, for I cannot describe how overlooked I felt, a stoplight parked in front of your house, blinking ruby red at all hours of the night, yet you chose to walk out the side door where you can move without disturbance. Must I accept a constant role as the courageous one? Reaching out can only profit me for so long before I forfeit rest for a yearning to be approached, and not have to break the silence first.
You're the only one who knows my darkness this close, who hears it cackle when I'm choking on air and you're trying to collect advice from the other side of the telephone line. These emotions abuse me, tracing me with compassion then using me for my energy until I am exhausted, an emaciated mind who has naively sent her soul away to be tested upon.
And I hate admitting that I need to be held, that I feel worthless for putting myself in this situation, a widow still summoning her love from muggy panes that depress a lighthouse no one writes about anymore... I feel hopeless, for telling you causes helplessness to latch onto your neck and mass-produce remorse.
But how often these emotions control my senses, keep me from speaking, instead feeding on the used memories that are never capable of learning. How often I wish you would realize what consumes me, that it cannot be cured by one moment of simply feeling better, that its violent waves cross my calm, oceanic thoughts even when I am with a compass.
Please, reach out to me, drive recklessly to stay by my shaking side. Fashion a set of oars and show me an island of hope, a place where I am not amidst whirlpools. What do you see when your eyes meet my coast, are there storms or do you see peace sailing in the near future?
We are seafarers who need each other.
So please, keep your promise and ask me how I am, even if I am not momentarily trapped in a cyclone. Ask, before my wrecked boat is completely destroyed. Ask, before I will have to carve new paths for me to travel by.
