Lingering Emotions

Sometimes things don't pan out the way we anticipated, even when things are seemingly perfect. We are spinning on this Earth just to live, breathe, eat, sleep, and give.

To Y/N:

I miss you and us. I feel resentment because your life seems to have worked out for the best. It angers me because you reveal a sense of complacency which I wish were empathy instead. I know perhaps you are demonstrating your remorse in other ways: offering to buy lunch, beers, small gestures which may also just be within your nature to enact. I feel as though, however, you want your cake and to eat it too. If I give away the part of myself you desire, I feel like I will further lose myself to you, and the idea is that I should be learning to find myself within...myself. On the contrary, I feel like not doing so results in the same. The same guilt I used to feel arises within me: that by sparing my body I am harming your well being. That by sparing my body I am not demonstrating reciprocation of your "love", of your "care". As I write this I understand the delusion behind infatuation and the way it forces us to blame ourselves for the insurmountable. I feel I have not been honest with myself, or you. I apologize for being bitter and mean, I take longer to process my emotions. I love you. We will be friends forever, and I do adore your talent and charm. Thank you.

Laughter lingers before me, but my hands do not reach to grasp the origins of it. They simply hang by my side, sans intention, removing themselves from before me and slowly inching to bind together behind my back. Tied down by my own mental discourse, but I am not its slave and will not fall victim to it. This plume which writes words that I control is absolute. I put letters together, form my own thoughts, these thoughts slip like the ends of sentences slipping from my grip. Phrases are not written in reverse, as I read and write this I release this emotion onto the page and bid it farewell. I stand propped on one leg, the other foot crooked like a flamingo. Hands shake, but write more freely as I admit what provokes my sadness.

Rebirth. You are here.