sweetbriarpoet
Flower Fortune- Sweetbriar: Poetry and fragrance.
Fifty-Second Entry
What ever happened to me?
What ever happened to me, when I used to be so pretty. And I didn't have to worry about little lives around. Once, I wandered outside in the middle of the night, hoping to find something up in the stars besides mystery. I ended up landing near Reverend's house, watching through the window as his hand rested in the small of his girlfriend's back. I was so completely jealous that he could touch her when he wanted. I am constantly waiting for Harry, thinking, When will you come home so that you may touch me like I matter? He never lets me down. But in his absensce I forget how devoted he can be.
I rush off to the wine bottle when I am left home alone. When the children are sleeping and a thick cloud of silence settles in the open ceilings and makes the windows seem painted black. Edward can contain this enveloping loneliness, but it gets harder for me to express myself.
It is a cold that settles near my heart and fills it up as if I'd stuffed it with black snow. It makes my lungs clear and thin, taking in biting air, so freezing that it hurts to breathe. It fills up my eyes with ice, tears are not possible, and neither is mobility. How should I move when I cannot break the frozen earth around me?
It is only when he steps through the door, tired eyes drooping, hands smelling like antiseptic, yet still rough and callused from home, it is only then I don't feel this complete destitution. I feel as if I can control the panic within me.
I stopped writing poetry long ago.
It is amazing how he can sense my emotional seizures. Oh, wild eyes, he says and lifts me into his lap like I am one of the children. I am one of his children. Since the day I was sixteen and saved me from my mother, he has been saving me, and always will. (I depend on you to depend on me, once said during my eighteenth birthday party when I started to cry in front of the cake. It was at this moment I realized I was eighteen, the mother of three children, and I would probably never go back to school. Oh, how it devestated me). And now, sometimes, he'll read to me, whispering the words by my ear so as not to give me a headache, or to break the trance of his love for me.
And tonight, when Rev shouted at me, buried his face into my neck and said, I have always loved you, and I ran home, crying, I expected Harry here. As if his soul had felt my distress and my horrible aching to be loved in the right way. But I ran home to an empty house, to the nanny asking, Are you alright? and me sitting on the floor with my back pressed against the sofa, the sharp cold already trickling into my heart.
Please leave, I said to the nanny. And she left, afraid of the chill in my voice, perhaps.
It is not even late, not even dark enough to be considered the cradle of blackness, like when the night switches from gray to an unimaginalbe colour. I will be stuck in the transition from night until morning for the rest of my life. And cannot get enough to drink.
So this is what Edward meant when he said, You want them all, Paige, and so you have them. What will you do now?
What will I do now? It seems impossible to go back and face myself in the mirror or in the shower, or in any sort of fashion.
I must sit here and write out my distress.
For even when Harry comes home and finds me still on the floor, rasping for one normal breath, what will I say to him.
We are best friends no more, Rev and I?
Oh friend, how you have abandoned me.
You cannot be in love, when I have given you everything.
Please, please, let this be the end of it, the end of me.
And when Harry comes home I will say, Promise you are the only person on earth that loves me as you do. Promise that no one else could love me so.
He will promise, and maybe my nightmare will be temporarily ended.
What ever happened to me, when I used to be so pretty. And I didn't have to worry about little lives around. Once, I wandered outside in the middle of the night, hoping to find something up in the stars besides mystery. I ended up landing near Reverend's house, watching through the window as his hand rested in the small of his girlfriend's back. I was so completely jealous that he could touch her when he wanted. I am constantly waiting for Harry, thinking, When will you come home so that you may touch me like I matter? He never lets me down. But in his absensce I forget how devoted he can be.
I rush off to the wine bottle when I am left home alone. When the children are sleeping and a thick cloud of silence settles in the open ceilings and makes the windows seem painted black. Edward can contain this enveloping loneliness, but it gets harder for me to express myself.
It is a cold that settles near my heart and fills it up as if I'd stuffed it with black snow. It makes my lungs clear and thin, taking in biting air, so freezing that it hurts to breathe. It fills up my eyes with ice, tears are not possible, and neither is mobility. How should I move when I cannot break the frozen earth around me?
It is only when he steps through the door, tired eyes drooping, hands smelling like antiseptic, yet still rough and callused from home, it is only then I don't feel this complete destitution. I feel as if I can control the panic within me.
I stopped writing poetry long ago.
It is amazing how he can sense my emotional seizures. Oh, wild eyes, he says and lifts me into his lap like I am one of the children. I am one of his children. Since the day I was sixteen and saved me from my mother, he has been saving me, and always will. (I depend on you to depend on me, once said during my eighteenth birthday party when I started to cry in front of the cake. It was at this moment I realized I was eighteen, the mother of three children, and I would probably never go back to school. Oh, how it devestated me). And now, sometimes, he'll read to me, whispering the words by my ear so as not to give me a headache, or to break the trance of his love for me.
And tonight, when Rev shouted at me, buried his face into my neck and said, I have always loved you, and I ran home, crying, I expected Harry here. As if his soul had felt my distress and my horrible aching to be loved in the right way. But I ran home to an empty house, to the nanny asking, Are you alright? and me sitting on the floor with my back pressed against the sofa, the sharp cold already trickling into my heart.
Please leave, I said to the nanny. And she left, afraid of the chill in my voice, perhaps.
It is not even late, not even dark enough to be considered the cradle of blackness, like when the night switches from gray to an unimaginalbe colour. I will be stuck in the transition from night until morning for the rest of my life. And cannot get enough to drink.
So this is what Edward meant when he said, You want them all, Paige, and so you have them. What will you do now?
What will I do now? It seems impossible to go back and face myself in the mirror or in the shower, or in any sort of fashion.
I must sit here and write out my distress.
For even when Harry comes home and finds me still on the floor, rasping for one normal breath, what will I say to him.
We are best friends no more, Rev and I?
Oh friend, how you have abandoned me.
You cannot be in love, when I have given you everything.
Please, please, let this be the end of it, the end of me.
And when Harry comes home I will say, Promise you are the only person on earth that loves me as you do. Promise that no one else could love me so.
He will promise, and maybe my nightmare will be temporarily ended.
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