A Heavy Hope

We found ourselves in

a sticky

sticky mess

didn’t we?


We can be so intimate,

because I hate making my walls

from already crumbled bricks and

clay of wilted loves,

the dredge and slurries of everything that went wrong

plasters together the insecurities I hide from,

to protect you from.


You didn’t even build the offence I expected,

to prompt my building, my construction and strategy and

internal combat.

I didn’t have to crouch at your feet,

long forgotten how to feel for myself.

So mastered at letting you take over my body,

make it move with you where you need it to be,

matching ecstasies and heartbeats

and sweat and moans,

feeling you aroused,

secretly wondering if I was made of stone.


It took one touch

to do it.

Just one hopeless exploration of two bodies,

for me to return to my shrivelled husk,

tearful and vulnerable and exposed for all the others,

tainted parcel, envelope turned inside out,

only wishing to be your absolute perfect,

in and out of bedsheets and

the expectations we see peeking out of the shade,

fucking us and ruining us as we go.


But you make it seem all ok.

You make that one shadow in my past,

turn me into something else entirely.

It still bothers me, plays me, screws me over and over

until I break a little because it’s just to much trauma to overcome.

Being used for little night-time, quickened searchings,

finding out what people always want from me,

and what they are happy to leave behind them,

with me.


I’ve always known about emotions.

But I don’t think it’s ever been this easy to feel them.

To feel that rise and fall of a wave people keep ranting of.

Because of you, I get it now.

It makes me see stars and feel everything hit at once.


It’s always a start that ages before it’s time.

It’s always the nerves that settle under my skin,

bumps and bruises and dead hour wanderings,

waiting for the inevitable moment it all ends.

As soon as you like me, I start to panic.

I can’t sleep and eat waiting for that little rattle,

pop shake

of when you pick up the phone and make my panic real.


I can only believe you for a day.

I can only like you for for a day at a time.

I can only show you what I am for a day at a time under very

rational considerations.


To feed you until you want me no more.

You can scrunch up your eyes and turn to plead you would never,

but having been a lot of messed-up lovely things to a lot of people,

I know you are a human emotional puddle.

And they were all human too.


And all our time together

becomes a heartfelt plea,

the heavy, pressure-on-chest of hope

that no one ever warns you about,

of the dangers of letting yourself go

with them

that special person

feeling everything you strive so hard to suppress

given over to trickster hands and laughs

of those emotions you fear.


We don’t regret it.

Not at all.

But all our movements and affections are

dictated expiry dates,

and I hate it being about us needing

to consume as much of each other

before the time ticks over and

it’s all spoiled.


So this solidifies where I am,

where I am coming from,

when I curl up next to you.

This is my flagged position,

in this strategic push-pull, give-take, want-relinquish

games we desperately seek to play.

I’m always the loyal friend, crying when you close a door on me,

or leave me aside,

or throw me away for someone, something new.


So instead

for now,

I’m going to remind myself of all the things one day could be true.

And get a little lost in you,

because that’s all I can do.


It’s that or I’m going to

admit defeat

and have to watch you walk away,

and hope I feel this rollercoaster again.


There is something a little tragic above all else, in this.

That one person you want to let yourself open to, to let them break you

into tiny pieces is all ok.

You know you would rather try and hurt from them, because at least it’s safer

than hurting yourself like you know you do

every hour not with them.

But it’s so heartbreaking when they are too scared themselves to be hurt by you.

That empty ache when the one soul you have felt more for in an entire week, than you

would in months,

gives up on you. Doesn’t even feel anything for you, to fight that fear with you.


So you see, it does become my problem. It does become a fight,

about me.

How emptier can I feel months from now, knowing we didn’t even give time a chance.

How emptier would I be, knowing the person I don’t even have to try being vulnerable


I know I can’t even trust them in the end?

Who does that leave me with trusting now?


I couldn’t feel any worse months from now.

Because I unconsciously have already given you everything.

There is nothing I wouldn’t say to you at this point, which means I already

put in everything I could be and more.

And knowing I meant nothing that time couldn’t help,

that’s just a whole new hurt a human should never need to feel.


And now you have left me feeling numb.

I would give anything to stay in our happiness

and cry for months many weeks, years from now,

than have to know that I don’t feel warm, or cold, or scared, or lonely, or stressed, or


or panicked than

I don’t feel right now.


So you see you are worth waiting for. You are something I can only seek to help and

support, than

something to remove and wash away.

Don’t you dare push me out.

I would rather know you see pain every time I make you better, stronger, more you and real

and beautiful,

than toss me out when I’m perfect at making you better,

so you don’t have to feel how

wasted and worthless and small I feel.

I appreciate you not lying to me,

but I don’t appreciate you making me have to watch you try and help yourself when I don’t

think you are.

I know you want to comfort. You want to say you understand how much I hurt.

How many spikes I have driven through my head, or how heavy my body feels.

But you can’t ever know how terrifying this is;

I have my mental illness, a disease programmed to make me feel like nothing

every time I try and feel something,

and you gave it what it wanted. And you taught me to believe it’s right. By proving that

even when I instantly feel that love we talk about, it isn’t real.

You’re just a dream I don’t think I’ll ever get to wake up to.

And it’s so sad.

And nothing stands in our way, I know. The only thing there is you and fear.


*Artwork unknown- Pinterest*


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