I Am Trying To Comprehend How You Made Me Feel This Way


I am trying to comprehend more than I think a human mind can comprehend. Why am I reading that book, why am I building friendships, why am I striving to fix an unknowable plight (does anyone actually know what we are reaching for?), and why am I even writing this? Of all the exhausting questions, the most exhausting is why am I alive? Call me nihilistic, but I really have an immensely difficult time breathing and laughing and crying, having my heart ripped out of my chest and then searching again and trying again and maintaining again love when all I believe in my disappointed mind (trust me when I say I wish I didn’t think the way I think) is that there is no point.

I hate that I can’t get myself to stop painting my nails cherry red and plum and olive since it serves me no real purpose other than an aesthetic illusion that I am pretty or manicured or have my shit together when, quite frankly, these are all just lies upon lies. I hate that I can never stop living in the past and re-realizing the epiphanic fact that my exclamatory, “I will always choose you!” was not enough. I hate that I don’t want to let go of sticky sweet honey compliments from an ex-lover whose words were really as reliable as my fathers’ 2000 Jeep Cherokee that has broken nine times.

Ex-lover? Scratch that. If any term containing the letters l-o-v-e-r has an expiration date, then I do not want anything to do with it. Baby, you should call me your ex-fucker and I the same for you because I am waking up from a nightmare, and I am not feeling you next to me because you left, you left, you left when I had nothing left to give.

Ex-fucker, I hope you know that now I kind of just feel like a rotten apple. Like I’ve extinguished all the sweetness of me to air and earth and the properties of decomposition. And it’s whenever I feel like I’m the only real person in the universe that I bend down on my knees and hope that I will seep into the earth one day and emerge in the future as a tree. A tall, willowy tree with endless rings of stories of you and me forever held in the very core of my body. Perhaps things will make sense then. Perhaps then, it will all be, “Ahh, how could I not have seen it before?”