Junk Food

Thursday, June 30, 2016

Disembark

There are all these tiny anchors pulling downward under my skin. Each joint has one. It feels like a thousand ships sailing on my blood, my ocean, all stopping at once and becoming a great heavy weight across a planet.

I don't know what I did, but I know it was something bad. Something to make them turn away. Betrayal is familiar to me, and comes on quiet. It starts with anxiety and it's the kind that you want to wish away, or tell yourself is your imagination. But you know that it's real. I do, at least.

The way you tell someone has betrayed you is when they won't look at you. Then they start to avoid. I knew it when she blew me off without asking again for a better time, more specific. Friends who know what it's like, don't do that unless they mean to erase something they are ashamed of. Friends don't lead you down a road they can't walk on and then disappear.

For those who have felt love taken away by the people closest to them, she should know better. She should take more care, be more sensitive, give a bit of herself. Maybe it's wrong to expect this. Maybe it's wrong to ask. Maybe I'm just as fucked up as it seems like she thinks that I am. And how can I tell what is real when all I can feel is shattering?

So I go to work and pretend like it's not happening. I'm tired of pretending for other people. I'm sick of being the one who always has to say sorry. I'm sick of needing to apologize for being myself, having feelings, needing assurance.

I don't know what I did. I probably didn't do anything. I just was. I am. My being who I am sometimes isn't what people want to see in me, or want to like. My feeling my feelings always hurts people. I don't want to feel anymore.

So I let the anchors pull me again and I try to stay as still as possible. I can't do anything but wait this out, until the ocean fills back up again and the ships aren't afraid to set sail.

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