This particular piece is from my “adopted daughter” Diane Jensen, a very bright young adult who’s much more mature than her years would lead you to believe. It demonstrates the power of emotion, and the depth of pain. This is her description of the piece: “I’m going to put in two pieces I wrote … they were both written in the middle of the night, in the heat of my emotional turmoil and are both about the same two people in my life. Collectively I call it For All The F*ing Men. Enjoy, and read with a grain of salt.”
Rigor mortis.
That’s what it’s like. I can’t pry the cold bony fingers of your influence away from my heart even now when they are lifeless and clammy. I can’t erase all the feelings I had for
you the way you seem to have done for your own.
I’m being unreasonable. It’s selfish of me to expect that because I love you you’ll love me back, but I can’t accept that it’s just gone, like a puff of smoke. A whole lifetime of your half-presence, your being there only in my mind, I was never really close to you, you never let me, and now you fade back into the oblivion of distance.
I feel like I’m losing a part of myself, losing all of myself. I grow pale and wilted without you like a hyacinth in a closet. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I let go? I feel horribly and terrifyingly out of control, my center hollowed out like a jack-o-lantern, grinning emptily, meaninglessly. You’re the wind that’s blown out my candle; I’m that one lifeless orange globe, smashed in the street by prepubescent boys trying to out-macho each other. I would beat my chest and tear my hair; I would crawl into a dark hole and pick at my skin like a disease if it weren’t for the eyes. The thousands of eyes of classmates, parents, peers, that idolize me.
The unspoken expectations are heavy like a chain around my neck. That girl is happy, smart, perfect, things can’t go wrong for her. She’ll go places, you’ll see. I have to live up (live down?) to their wordless urgings.
You, symbol of manly strength, of stable reliability, of caring, protection, advice, and love, have shifted your mask just enough for me to see behind it. I see your pumpkin grin. You’re scared, you’re empty, as unreliable and ever changing as I, our only difference is love. You think you have it, but deep down all you are is hollow. I know I have it, and it makes me empty.
Noncommittal and wavering, changing your attitude like a chameleon, to suit whatever your situation may be at the moment. “I’ll always be here,” you say, “I’d give anything just to be with you,” and my grin could melt a glacier.
“He loves me!” I think. Then out of those same sublime lips come other words, simpering, dodging, meaningless words to shield your soft belly from impending blows. “I don’t want to interfere,” you mumble. “I’ll always be here for you, I just have to figure some things out for myself.” “You have to have faith.”
The ice envelops my soul again and the cold winter of life - without knowing what we are – what you are to me, tears me to ribbons. Fuck, why do I keep coming back for more? Keep offering up my wrists to be slit? Don’t you see what a miracle you are? Don’t you see that now that there’s a place for you in my heart you must either fill it or leave me with only a gaping hole to remind me of what once was? A souvenir of my pointless past.
You’ve already won, you’ve already made me dependent, your declarations of undying affection echo in the hollow caverns of empty promises. Just don’t let me wander them alone.