Of Hearts

5/29/13

My heart isn’t just broken, it’s crushed.  I’m not even sure if the word crushed captures the current state of my heart.  It’s littering the ground, pieces of glitter, black sludge.  No words I use can fully explain the pain I feel.  It’s all I can do to get through another second, and the one after that, then the next.  All I see around me is sorrow, and despair, every tear cried hurts the sad remains of my heart.  Is there really redemption? Or is that just bullshit dreamed up by the delusional and desperate? How I long to be delusional, to not see quite so clearly or so much, but I guess God didn’t give me a choice in the matter.  

God, why do you insist on breaking my heart at every turn, I know that you are said to shape people into your instruments, but I’m not your instrument.  At this point I think you are just doing this to see how far you can push me, or because you really don’t care.  Well my heart is decimated, I’m on my knees, crying out for the pain to end, slitting my wrist desperately hoping to let go.  If you love me at all, let me die. Please. 

I can’t take this, I’m not strong or brave, I’m broken and fragmented.  I spend so much time trying to hold myself together, and I know everyone says to turn to you, but I’m too messed up.  I’ve heard it all, that you meet us where we are and that you can use murderess hateful people for your ways, but what about one who is so hurt and fragile?  I have no desire to be used for you, because I know there are other people that will be better at it, and I’m too tired.  

My heart is weary, the last twenty-one years have worn it out.  It longs to stop beating.  The last numbered beats will pump the blood out of the gaps faster.  My slit wrists will turn into a painting of tragedy and pain with a finale of peace and just a whiff of victory.  Not victory in overcoming but in succumbing, so maybe not what anyone else would call victory.  I write of death in a pretty, hopeful way my last two attempts were just messy, dirty even.  But my only hope is that maybe that is because they were near death not death.  To be on this side of death is messy, unromantic, ugly, but maybe the other side is worth it.  And maybe I can pretend long enough to cut deep enough.  Why am I longing for the romance in this last final act?  Does my heart still care just the tiniest bit?  I still want roses. I want roses to cover my body to smell sweet to hide the pain from any onlookers who may care.  I would even want roses there to comfort me in the final moments only I suppose they would get bloody, they don’t seem to deserve that. Do I think about death too much? Why does death appeal to me so much? Because it seems like my only way to have peace.