How do you love somebody, who does not love themself?


The question is evident, the answers are pending.

Arms are weak. Legs are numb. Mind is racing with complete nothingness.

The day is hopeless. I cannot get up. But to remain still, would mean to succumb to the darkness. To be taken by the title wave. To rot in this nightmare.

There are better options, sure. Start the day, plaster on a smile – perhaps it will make its way to the heart and cause a tinge of happiness.




Lay here dying. Unable to move, disease-ridden and fear stricken.

Be consumed by the lost battles, which are the invisible victories.

Push the door closed, and lock the people with love on the outside rather than on the in.


The tug-o-war is tiring, the rope burning in my hands.

The thrust toward the core of my stomach is powerful and beautiful.

But, your thrust back is stronger and filled with pain as my body collapses in front of my stance.


Love seeps and slides, under the small doorframe crack.

Beside you it lies, still and patient.

Heave, weep, clench, grit, squirm. Routine. Monotonous. Your life.

Love waits.

Lash out, pull in, yearn for the one beside you.

Wait for the darkness, the title wave, the nightmare to take over again.


Sun creeps in, your eyes flutter.

Another day, change the pattern – rise.

A smile is on that face, a natural one which does make its way.

The door is open, but it is vacant.

No one waits on the other side.


So, throw it in my face. Cover me with red ink – highlighting my mistakes.

Three slaps to my wrists, and one to my face.

I loved you at your deepest. At your darkest.


Who can be prepared for such suffering? Not you, not I.


To dream to turn those victories visible.

To reach out for a hand that grasps, not slaps.

Unconditional, the one beside you.

So get up.


The same old song and dance.


The ominous tone. The one step forward, two steps back. The stumble to reconcile stability. The fear of not landing perfectly on your feet. True feelings or horrifically specific metaphors? The differentiations begin to blur. I can’t distinguish one from the other. What is truth in that matter? What words are specific to this song, what moves are specific to this dance, that make them want to continue to haunt me?

I’ve loved and I’ve lost; and I have heard that if two hearts were broken then both were the same. Is this suppose to be comforting? Am I suppose to feel satiated by this adage? I do not think they were ever the same at all. In fact, I don’t even think they are remotely comparable.

I am rambling, I know. But isn’t that the innate way of the mind? Isn’t that the natural rhythm of the heart?  Some people will skim through this and find no possible point of relation, while others will be glued to every word because they have also been entranced and locked into the melody of this song, to the sway of this dance.

I am a fool. I am a fool for you. I am a slave to this repetitive routine. To break the pattern would mean to break my heart. However, it is way past broken. Every right is wrong, and every wrong will never again be right. Punishment is handed out like taxes; taxing my heart. What do I owe? How many more pieces are there left to take? So much of it has been collected, I am astounded that there is still more to come back for. This song is still blaring on. This dance has not ended.

I try. I try for you. I try for me, because of you. And because of you, I am here to try. Ironic isn’t it?

But, yet, I sit here and I cry. I cry because this song is beautiful and this dance is fluid. I cry because this song is consumed by darkness and this dance is excruciating. No one knows but me. No one understands but you. This sick and twisted fall into oblivion. I am falling. I am falling. I am not even fearful of the landing. I already know that I will not get up and lay their paralyzed. But instead, I start walking, I start running, I break out into a full sprint – right into your arms. Where you grab me and you say, “this is our song.” And you put out your hand and ask me, “may I have this dance?”