Moonpie
Dear Moonpie,
I have been wallowing in darkness, lately, finding different, unrelated meanings of life. Seeking clarity amidst darkness, hoping the light comes soon and unshackles me from these chains wound tight around my ankles. These chains of wanting to find healing from these things deep-seated within my heart and soul. These things that make me walk on eggshells around myself, wondering how long before these walls break down and floods of emotions rush towards me, drowning me in nothingness.
I have been wallowing in darkness, lately, sitting for hours in front of mirrors. Looking past my eyes, and reaching deep into my heart and soul. Writing pages upon pages in my journals, piling sadness upon anxiety upon darkness. Building a showroom out of bloodied canvases, tear-stained pillows and eyes lined with washed up mascara, and hoping no one comes to this grand opening of being lost on a maze of myself.
I have been wallowing in darkness, lately, silently mourning the deaths of parts of me I thought were vital, permanent even. Teaching myself how to live, thrive without them. How to look past the hurt, betrayal, and disappointment. Teaching myself the language of contentment, and finding the calm in silent solitude, no matter how hard the storms rage on the outside.
But then someone mentioned your name, and then another, and I came across something of yours in my possession, and all these walls I have been building around me came crashing, heavy, on my head. I stutter, a lot, especially when speaking about things I have no control over, but I have never lost words when it comes to you. I have always known what to say, how, and always, always loved how all the ice melts in my chest when I speak about you.
So I broke my own heart when they mentioned your name, and asked, over and over, whether you and I could do something for them, and all I could say was, “I don’t know. I am not sure I have the strength to pull that off. I don’t know; maybe just find someone else, or something I can do alone?”
And when they asked, over and over, whether everything was okay between us, I hung my head in shame, or fear, or guilt, and remained silent. Because maybe that is not my story to tell, even though I am right at its centre. Because maybe I still don’t know how to talk to the people I love, about the things that hurt me. I still do not have words to voice my feelings when the people I love hurt me, sometimes without their knowledge. Because, maybe, I am too afraid to confront my own misgivings, so I ‘d rather not put someone else in that position.
Because, maybe, I am afraid I’ll get too attached to you, and then co-dependent, and soon afterwards, I’d not know how to live without you. Even though you have promised, over and over again, that you’ll always be there for me. But what if I know, deep down, that this will never be possible. That I think you do not have the capacity to hold me in the way I crave, in a way that looks like you own me. Because maybe, I see more than you let to the surface, and I know drawing myself closer and closer to you is nothing but a recipe for disaster for my heart and soul.
Because, maybe, I am running away from myself. I am afraid the ghosts from my past are still in pursuit of my heart and soul, so I avoid anything that would take me back to that dark place, even if that something is this thing drawing me towards you. And because I am still too afraid of seeing my misgivings, I add this unease between us atop my pile of sadness, anxiety, and darkness. Meanwhile, the silence between us grows into something almost tangible, like a brick wall, and I do not try, even once, to scale it.
So I keep to myself, even though my fingers hover around your contact every day, my heart and soul desperate to hear your voice. Desperate to let you make me laugh. Desperate to wake up to a song you’ve sent to me, saying it reminds you of me. I hold back from speaking with you, even though this holding back is doing an almost equal damage that the attachment to you could do.
I hold back even when I bump into you, allowing myself just two seconds in your embrace. Even though every bone in my body wants me to stay in that embrace forever. To let your fingers wiggle through strands of my hair. To feel your breath against my skin. To hear your heartbeat against your chest. To stay in your arms long enough so that the smell of your perfume lingers with me for days on.
I hold back even when I bump into you, even though I know if I just let you hold my hand long enough, whispering sweet nothings into my ear, everything in me would be instantly healed.
But my intrusive thoughts get ahead of me, so I pull out of your embrace in two seconds, retrieve my hands from yours in two seconds, feign disinterest when you ask, “Do we need to talk about this wall of silence between us?”, and walk away as fast as I can. Heart thumping. Feet wobbly. Eyes bursting with tears.
I walk away, even though I know my heart and soul belong to you, at least for now. Maybe forever. Even though I know I’d do anything to get to you, crawl under your bedsheets, and remind my heart and soul the true meaning of a human home.
I walk, and walk, and walk, until I run out of breath from all the intense crying.
Even though I know for you, a thousand times over. For you, a thousand times over. For you, a thousand times over.
