^firefly^
04-26-2007, 09:49 AM
(I actually wrote this for a class I took, as a prose poem, but it's a lot of how I'm feeling right now, so I came back to it. Comments are always welcome.)
I imagine it hurts. I imagine it hurts like a paper cut rubbed with lemon or an old bruise accidentally banged against the corner of the coffee table in the dark. I imagine it's a sharp, achy feeling that stings at first, then fades away, and creeps up later to hurt some more. But grief never touches me, not me. I’m stronger and better and faster and smarter and hotter and cooler than they are. Let them weep bitter scalding tears to damp handkerchiefs that will appreciate them. I’ll be the strong one, and offer words of comfort. I’ll be the silent shoulder they sob on and murmur, “I’m so sorry,” or “It’ll be all right,” or “You’re so strong,” and I’ll smile that cool little smile, and nod, and move on. I won’t scream and cry and beg, nor let them touch me with their cool, clammy hands and sympathetic eyes. I won’t wake with shrill cries echoing in my ears and sweaty palms pressed over my eyes to gouge out nightmare-memories stuck like bad photographs on the film of my mind. I won’t bite my lips not to yell that it isn’t all right and it’ll never be all right, and how can they lie to me so easily, making empty promises meant for their own comfort? I won’t do that. Instead, I’ll put on my best black dress and the heels that pinch my toes, and cling to that small pain as proof that I’m human, and things really do hurt me—just not Death. A sister, a mother, a friend, a lover, a child—whose loss does it take? How many more deaths must I endure to find that place inside of me where grief slumbers, so I can tear it out with boiling tears and razor cries; until I can shrug out of my cold, brittle armor to prove I’m made of flesh and blood? Maybe I am different, but I’m not made of ice and stone, not really. I imagine it’ll hurt, because everyone says it does. I am pregnant with the emptiness of loss and hampered my inability to grieve, but I’m neither indifferent nor insensate. I can imagine. It hurts.
I imagine it hurts. I imagine it hurts like a paper cut rubbed with lemon or an old bruise accidentally banged against the corner of the coffee table in the dark. I imagine it's a sharp, achy feeling that stings at first, then fades away, and creeps up later to hurt some more. But grief never touches me, not me. I’m stronger and better and faster and smarter and hotter and cooler than they are. Let them weep bitter scalding tears to damp handkerchiefs that will appreciate them. I’ll be the strong one, and offer words of comfort. I’ll be the silent shoulder they sob on and murmur, “I’m so sorry,” or “It’ll be all right,” or “You’re so strong,” and I’ll smile that cool little smile, and nod, and move on. I won’t scream and cry and beg, nor let them touch me with their cool, clammy hands and sympathetic eyes. I won’t wake with shrill cries echoing in my ears and sweaty palms pressed over my eyes to gouge out nightmare-memories stuck like bad photographs on the film of my mind. I won’t bite my lips not to yell that it isn’t all right and it’ll never be all right, and how can they lie to me so easily, making empty promises meant for their own comfort? I won’t do that. Instead, I’ll put on my best black dress and the heels that pinch my toes, and cling to that small pain as proof that I’m human, and things really do hurt me—just not Death. A sister, a mother, a friend, a lover, a child—whose loss does it take? How many more deaths must I endure to find that place inside of me where grief slumbers, so I can tear it out with boiling tears and razor cries; until I can shrug out of my cold, brittle armor to prove I’m made of flesh and blood? Maybe I am different, but I’m not made of ice and stone, not really. I imagine it’ll hurt, because everyone says it does. I am pregnant with the emptiness of loss and hampered my inability to grieve, but I’m neither indifferent nor insensate. I can imagine. It hurts.