/lit/ - Literature

>>11968607
2/2

I went home, and as I withered away in the house that I grew up in, I thought of you. I remembered the rhythmic rise and fall of your lungs with mine; that slowly dancing push and pull of our breathing as we slept, moving me to peacefulness as it snowed outside. I remembered focusing on the cracks in the plaster walls, concentrating to prevent myself from drifting off, in an effort to be intertwined with you for as for long as possible. I remembered the weight of another person's life bearing down into my own, how with each subtle shift and stir you unconsciously told me that you were there to stay. I miss the honesty such closeness said to me, those small unspoken affirmations found in subtle motions. It was not my fault that I left you alone up in Vermont, out in the cold by yourself. Somebody did this to us.
Now that I’m healed, from what that monster did to me, that like very few people who go through benzodiazepine withdrawal I am somehow still alive. After surviving the end of the world, I find myself unable to be that way, like I was with you, with anyone. I hate what they did to me, how through violations so fundamental, they made me ugly. How I hate that I hate to be touched, that I feel disgusting, that it feels like it’s my fault that something so essential now causes me such pain. How when I walk around and go to class every day, when people ask why I can’t smoke or drink, or why I’m still in college, that I feel the need to fess up to all of this; that I’ve be found out. And while I hate them deeply for all that they’ve done to me, I hate them the most for taking me away from you; for convincing me that loving you was wrong.
For some reason, after everything that happened, it was always okay with you, that missing piece of me, so far away, all armored up and clad in green mountains. If all that I had was you, that gentle caring thing by which to warm myself, to offer everything I’ve got; I think I could be that person again. I think it would be okay if the rest of the world were as frigid as it was that night in Vermont, way back in my memories, up in my loft, when the two of us would laugh and watch movies. I think it would be okay if all the world were dead and cold, so long as you were there beside me.

2/2

Now that I work outside fulltime the winter it gives me a sort of meloncholy with bittersweet feelings of heartbreak and the women I lost through my foolish ideals of what could be. The cold is a woman I welcome and love but a painfull reminder of my flaws.