By: Sierra Rozen
I am dying in the slowest way known to man. My brain is becoming hardened against the world. My eyes no longer look at things with wonder. Worst of all, my heart is aching in every way possible. I am living in the culture of the heartbroken. Being tired is something I experience often, yet when my skull hits the pillow, I am held back by the horror movies playing on the back of my eyelids. Not horror to most people, but my own kind of poltergeist. Images of you and her and you with her and you leaving with her and you leaving me. Food seems to be out of the question most days. I say most days because there are some where I am ravenous. The days where I eat and eat but cannot seem to fill whatever hole is yearning to be stopped up. Most days, I feel sick to my stomach. Perhaps this is from the black liquid I consume every morning that make my days have a sliver of hope in them.
I tell myself it is because of this but who am I kidding? She makes me sick. You make me sick. You make me want to run up and throw my arms around you. Has poison ever seemed attractive to you? The eat me cake that you couldn’t possibly know the consequences of. Food is not an option. Warmth is always lacking. I never thought a broken heart could have such physical symptoms. I bundle up in the thickest of blankets, park myself next to the fire until it feels like I will burst into flames, and yet I am so cold. I am so, so cold. Is it your arms I want? Am I dead on the inside now? Is this only way I’ll ever know if the love I have is real? Because no fake love could ever bring about this much damage and suffering. These emotions are ones that I never imagined a person could have, especially when they all happened at once.
This is why I am dying. I have all the symptoms of an aged woman wasting away as she bides her time. Every day I ponder how life could turn itself so goddamn fast. The smooth waltz we were doing turned into a tango that I could not keep up with, no matter how hard I tried or wanted to. When I finally stumbled off to rest my feet, I looked over and found a graceful dancer had replaced me and was now tangoing perfectly. I could have yelled or screamed but all I could do was cry and wonder if he had finally seen how worthless I was; a fact I had always known. Somehow, he had convinced me otherwise but the blindfold must have finally been pulled off. How wonderful that a girl who already hated herself got to wonder if the only person who had ever loved her felt the same. The idea about people only being handed the things they can handle has finally come to the light as bullshit. How is a person who is already fragile enough supposed to deal with this? I am dying because I am not equipped to handle this kind of pain despite what everyone had told me.