I keep thinking of drowning and love and how they feel kind of similar. They suspend you, weightless, and everything about it is pain. But really, drowning. Is it the worst way to die? It’s suffocation, but more violent. The oxygen isn’t there. It isn’t being taken away. It’s replaced by something we can’t live with. It’s our own bodies giving up on us.

My stomach hurts whenever I talk to you. I wish I could pinpoint what brings out that feeling in me, but it isn’t good until we’re laying next to each other, naked, talking about nothing. And then I cry when I leave, headed home, knowing there isn’t a guarantee I’ll see you again. This time, I won’t.

This is it. We’re nothing like the dramatic ways of the movies, but my emotions have shifted into something smoother. Gentle waves. My bones ebbing away, the tears tracking down my cheeks and wearing pink skin raw. What is this? Why do I care?

We share similarities–we have both been adopted at birth. I don’t want to know. I feel a recklessness when I think of the birth parents, overpowered by guilt. So much guilt. That, worse than anything, hurts. It pulls at my blood like you do. You, though. You actively searched them out. You want to meet them. I wish I had that courage… that audacity. But my parents would be hurt. Aren’t we good enough? my mom might think. Their doubt would crack our relationship–their self-doubt, caused by me.

Bitterness. I feel weightless and bitter and my lungs sting as if the pacific ocean has taken up residency there, because we can’t talk about things like this without my blood running hot and cold and I can’t miss you without feeling guilty and I can’t love you because there’s no ‘us’ or ‘we’ and you don’t give a damn about me. You use me for my body. You use me for my warmth. I cannot sustain the both of us, and maybe you know I’d give it all to you. Take it, so I can feel nothing. Maybe then I’ll feel at peace.

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  1. Pingback: A Reflection: What I’ve Learned in 3 Years | Let It Out

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