Let Your Past Make You Better, Not Bitter.
Right now, I am sitting in my room.Contemplating the meaning of words- how the perception of word combinations can send a hopelessly hoping heart flying among the stars- or burning in the ashtray of its burned out cigarette dreams.
It never ceases to amaze me, how words can build or break, shatter or restore. How they can alter futures, basking in light, and recreate histories that have been cloaked in shadows. It stops my breathing as I think that words are the infrastructure of these creaking bones, the liquid rushing through these veins.The very DNA that makes me just who I am, that allows me to blink,and to breathe- to exist.
Its incredible to think words are the small things that made me- a kind word, then a lie to bed a broken woman, I start to wonder about the ways that words have changed me. How words,specifically, have transformed me from whole to desolate to cracked yet passable. I love you. I hate you. I need you. I want you. I miss you. I miss being able to say the I knew you better than anyone else. I miss our talks, and the ignorance of not knowing just how meaningless your words truly are.Yet I miss your laughter, your happiness that filled my hours like water filling a glass.
When it was you and me, the glass was neither half empty nor half full- it was overflowing- a waterfall of loving embraces cascading onto my aching shoulders, straightening my back against the morning sun.
Words were not only words- but life itself. I record dreams, and write thoughts, speak these syllables- each and everyone leading me farther into tomorrow while planting me so solidly in yesterday.
Your bitter, angry words were recycled into my actions, into the very goodbye that was whispered as eyes closed, shutting any other words that you spoke into the dark halls of silence.
Words sent you away, words set me free. Words have me waiting for something more, something MORE than anything I've let myself imagine. Those sweet words parallel with the hurtful ones dance, together, in my memory-
Right now, I am crying in my bedroom.Writing these words that you'll never hear, because I will never say them. Our words have been intercepted, never delivered, ignored. And our words hurt. They could heal, like yours did for me, once, but they don't. They choose not to.
For now, these words hurt. But here they are, here for you to never see or read. It does little to heal my broken bones for my hoping hopelessly- does little to aid in my recovery. Words will free me, eventually. They will fill me up- they will erase the bitterness- and let my past make me better.
But, for now, I am crying in my bedroom, curled up, writing. Hoping the words I feel coursing through me just might be the saving grace I need.