I have words.
Hundreds upon hundreds of them.
Countless little vessels,
arranged neatly into lines.
Each of them holding drops of feelings
wrung from my heart
that’s been seized by the world on one side
and its own crippled nature on the other,
and twisted into an excruciating mess.
I’ve taken these pain filled words
and given them polish and rhythm,
done my best to beautify them;
make their darkness palatable,
so whoever is kind enough to read them
should have some glowing warmth motivating them to continue.
But, maybe I’ve left too much inside?
What if I’ve been too specific,
been so honest with the details
that they’ll recognise me,
and they’ll know!
The thought is terrifying…
And somewhat tempting.
I want them to know; to understand!
That my pathetic, confusing exterior
is but the reverse side of a logical,
albeit traumatic, tapestry.
And have I referenced G-d enough
so it’s clear I still believe He’s there,
at least to the extent
that I can be angry at Him?
What if the beauty I long for
will be perceived as foul and repulsive?
What if I come across as glorifying sin?
Did I sufficiently demonstrate
that this isn’t just some perverse, base desire,
but is deep and meaningful
and truly, tragically, beautiful?
And even then. Send it in?
It won’t help.
Pain is not something you can put in a tear sealed envelope and ship off to some far away place where it can’t hurt you.
It’s not a heavy burden you can cry out for help under and other will come running to ease the load.
It’s a raging fire, that burns all it touches, leaves black marks on all that comes near. That only ends when the fuel is taken away,
or the wick consumed.
“But it will help others like you
feel less alone.”
I know, because I have other people’s words saved on my phone, and I read them over and over when it gets too much.
But they were different.
He was ambiguous; left you guessing, not quite sure.
I don’t want to be ambiguous. I don’t want to anything less than searingly honest; to be explicitly, graphically raw.
Like she was.
But it’s ok for a ‘she’.
People aren’t so repulsed by it, are sometimes even excited.
And even if I do gather up the courage, then what?
There’ll be no satisfying thump as it lands, no round of applause. It will be a message in a bottle, sent adrift, the author left standing alone on the silent shore, wondering if anyone will ever read it; obsessively checking to see if someone somewhere has graced him with a response. To let him know that they felt some sense of healing by looking up at his heart affixed upon the pole.
Maybe I will send it in, someday.
But not today.
Not when the words still ring so painfully true.