This is a place where horrible things happen. You were right to go. You’re probably escaping disaster. Look at me. I practically grew up here, and you’re right, it’s hurt me in ways I’ll probably never get over. I have a lot of memories of people. People I’ve lost forever. But I have a lot of other memories too. This is the place where I fell in love. The place where I found my family. This is where I learned to be a doctor. Where I learned how to take responsibility for someone else’s life. And it’s the place where I met you. So I figure this place has given me as much as it’s taken away from me. I’ve lived here as much as I’ve survived here. It just depends on how I look at it. I’m gonna choose to look at it that way, and remember you that way.
There’s getting out of bed and
there’s getting out of town and
I did both today!
But getting a grip and
getting out of my head is
proving somewhat taxing.
Leaving furniture behind in
left-behind prefab towns and
trying to begin
is very well until you flex your hands and
touch your temples pulsing that you
Because there’s getting out of bed and
there’s waking up and
I guess I’m half way there, today.
Allow me to explain a broken heart: A broken heart is when you actually refuse to get out of bed in the morning because you’re afraid of the reality that awaits you A broken heart is when you think about the guy that broke your heart constantly. You reminisce the “good times” almost as if the “bad times” never existed. A broken heart is when you’re crying yourself to sleep every night and yet crying more and more each morning. A broken heart is the unforgettable smell of his shirt that sits in that empty box stowed away. A broken heart is the cold shattering feeling you receive when you hear the syllables of his name. A broken heart is glancing at the pictures of you two and then quickly turning your attention to something else to avoid your tears. A broken heart is re-reading his ancient letters and putting away the old jewelry he bought you. A broken heart is secretly wanting to run back to him and secretly wanting to just be loved by him again. A broken heart is asking desperately for just one last chance with the one person responsible for your loneliness. A broken heart is pretending not to care what his friends are saying about you. A broken heart is hanging up the phone after dialing the first six digits to his phone number. A broken heart is screaming and begging for a second chance inside. A broken heart is the emptiness and heart wrenching feeling you encounter when you see him with his new girlfriend. A broken heart is knowing that whatever you do or say to yourself, you can’t fool your heart into believing that you will in fact “be alright” A broken heart is listening to that one song that makes you break down over and over again. A broken heart is sometimes not wanting to go on.now tell me,is your heart broken?
He awoke each morning with the desire to do right, to be a good and meaningful person, to be, as simple as it sounded and as impossible as it actually was, happy. And during the course of each day his heart would descend from his chest into his stomach. By early afternoon he was overcome by the feeling that nothing was right, or nothing was right for him, and by the desire to be alone. By evening he was fulfilled: alone in the magnitude of his grief, alone in his aimless guilt, alone even in his loneliness. I am not sad, he would repeat to himself over and over, I am not sad. As if he might one day convince himself. Or fool himself. Or convince others—the only thing worse than being sad is for others to know that you are sad. I am not sad. I am not sad. Because his life had unlimited potential for happiness, insofar as it was an empty white room. He would fall asleep with his heart at the foot of his bed, like some domesticated animal that was no part of him at all. And each morning he would wake with it again in the cupboard of his rib cage, having become a little heavier, a little weaker, but still pumping. And by the midafternoon he was again overcome with the desire to be somewhere else, someone else, someone else somewhere else. I am not sad.
We run back to each other when it’s convenient. We know that in the end, we’re meant for each other, but not for right now. So we play these games, act like we’re okay when one of us has someone else. When in reality, it tears us apart to know that we can be happy with someone else. But it’s that slight hope that we will end up together that always keeps us running back for more.