Misc prose, Uncategorized, Writing

smaller, still.

It’s weird, I think, seeing things you’ll never have, whether it be in the media or books or real life, experiencing second hand emotions and touches and those small innocent moments of love which are undefinable yet so, so important. It feels like intruding, as though you’ll ugly them up by your mere presence. It feels like a heavy weight on your chest, a knowledge, a certainty, and it makes you curl up at night under the duvet, like a dormouse, a small ball of limbs, pretending there’s somebody besides you but knowing, with a clarity you can’t deny, that there’ll never be anybody beside you, that the arm thrown over your waist is your own, and that you can’t pretend that the heaviness that it lends to your hip belongs to another. It’s weird, I think, reading love story after love story and knowing that your story doesn’t include that word: the four letter word that matters most, that you may feel it, but nobody is going to feel it for you. That it will always remain abstract, something other people experience, something you don’t get to have, because you don’t deserve it, and because you’d fuck if up if someone did look twice. But thankfully, thankfully, nobody looks twice, at the mess of hair on your head, or the way your smile turns down, or the way your body is a mess of a life ill-spent. So you sleep and you dream, and for maybe moments you know what it’s like to feel the touch of a hand against yours, or lips on lips, or just the trust and faith in another human being. It isn’t real, but it’s the closest thing to, and when you wake and touch a finger to your lips, chapped and dry, you try to recall the sensation, but it’s already fading. It feels like a small life, a life full of yearning, of looking through dirty windows and trying to catch a glimpse at what could have been. There’s no five stages of grief, no acceptance. Just this: that you are alone, and that you deserve it, because you are you and that isn’t enough, and shouldn’t be enough. The sense that you are unworthy is palpable, you can almost hold it in your hands. You are unworthy of this beautiful gift, which is why the music didn’t stop on you when the gods played pass the parcel with your life. You never got to unwrap it, never got to see the prize. Maybe one day, you’ll be okay with that. But today and tomorrow and all the days for months and years to come? It’s going to hurt. It’s going to hurt more than anything you’ve ever experienced. And nobody will ever understand, as they lace their fingers through the fingers of their loved one, how lucky they are. How intrinsically better they are than you. How their lives shine and sparkle and have this gleam to them which yours never will. It’s a loss, in a way, you are mourning the loss of a potential outcome because you believed it could happen to you. But of course, really, you’re you, and what did you fucking expect? All you are is skin and bones and no words, no loveliness. You’ll die as you live, alone, unremembered, un-thought of. Because of some quirk of fate twenty seven years ago that broke you. And keeps breaking you. Every single day. And you would scream, but you don’t have the energy anymore. Not for that, not for anything. So you watch from a distance as people gravitate towards each other. And you grow smaller. And colder. Until the fire no longer warms you and the bed seems so much bigger. You curl up a little tighter and imagine the heat of a body beside you. But the cold air sneaks under the blankets and reminds you. Not for you. This is not for you.

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