There is so little I can do.
I feel the night breeze swirl around me; soothe, and ghost over my chilled skin, my bare forearms, my scarred forearms. I remember not red, I’m too cold, too still and dead in the darkness, the deep, honest darkness of the night, but pain. I remember as I walk across the grass that sways like an ocean, and kisses my skin, and dances with the tips of my hair. I feel my heart sway along, rocking along to the sky’s sweet hum, her lullaby. I remember while I walk and dream as the stars above travel through time, and forever stand still in the darkness, the darkness, the darkness of the night. My heart rocks in the breeze as a leaf in autumn; dead and beautiful and weighed down by memories of life gone before. I’m so full of memories. Of such heavy, heavy memories. Of thoughts.
The house was empty, warm and soft in my head, resting on a wave of grass, and surrounded by trees when I left. I used to be held, kissed by mothering smiles and loved, swathed in bedtimes and cradled by weeping willows under sunsets, and skies that held their breath until the blue of night tided in with a sigh. The walls used to warm up in the white and yellow crests of sunlight from crystalline windows. I used to play. I remember so much. My life would stream out in front of me, pulled taught and pulling me forward, and I would run to it, leaving generous helpings of laughter, and smiles, and soft singing, and wonder in my wake, trailing just behind me. I used to feel warm, too. I used to have a heart as warm as my mother’s arms, as loving as a child’s. I used to beat, and walk, and pulse, and soar.
There is no end to the grass, and so I sit, a few strands scratching and some tickling my legs as I decline. The wind still finds me amidst the foliage, and tugs at my hair, tossing it in invisible hands, as a child plays with a puppy’s ears. I want to laugh, but laughter is so heavy, and I’m so weak. I can’t find it in myself, in the night sky, to push it past my chest. It dies at heart.
The house turned grey, and cold, and broken, and distant, the one I left for the night. Only for the night. Deep darkness, and light promises singed my eyelids, and branded with searing hot claws onto my lungs such permanent memories. Such heavy fears. Such unforgiving touches.
I’m so trapped in those memories.
There are no more hugs. There are no more smiles and laughter, and soft words and brightly lit walls. There are no more cradling words to say ‘I love you’. There are no hands in mine, no life pulling me forward to say ‘it’ll be okay soon’. There are no trees in the world, no grass at my side, no stars in the sky, no cuts on my skin, no words someone says, no darkness, no person, no family; there is nothing that soothes the burns. Nothing that lifts my memories. Nothing that strengthens me to lift them, nothing that softens the hands, the hands. The touches. There is no end, no end to say ‘you’ve finished’. No end to say ‘you’re free’. There is no one.
Dark sapphires and swathes of ebony are speckled with millions of silent eyes, brilliant gems forever silenced, forever singed into the blanket of black sky, of nothingness above. My skin tingles with exhaustion, and I feel my wispy strands of hair as they softly graze over the chilled expanse of my cheeks and forehead, and into the vacuum of air around me. So light, and alive.
I left for the night, because I dread the promise of tomorrow. I can’t bring myself to lift my limbs, to force some semblance of life back into shredded veins, into broken skin, into weeping thoughts, and bowed expressions. I can’t look up to the sky anymore, I can’t push to the beauty of spring anymore. I cannot survive the winter. I cannot bear the emptiness of space, of distance, of darkness, of loneliness, of pain any longer. I cannot admire the strength of the stars any more.
I can do nothing but fall, and glide over the pangs of remembrance, over the scars of summer days, over the wounds of winter nights. There is so little I can do. So little I can say, can bear. I’m hurting.
The night is cold, and the suddenness of hot beads of water blurring my shamed mind, my vision cuts through the silence. The dreams in my head are too heavy behind the wall of sobs that so easily bubble out from me. My head hides in the grass. I’m bowing to the night.
My head is touching the ground, and I’ve never found anything more forgiving. The darkness will never heal me. The stars will never find me. The sky will never see me. I’m so tired. There is no more life for me to give. I have nothing left. I am only scars.
There is so little of me left.
There is nothing I can do.
The weeping willows of my home pray to the night. And the leaves of autumn decompose. And the scars of yesterday fade.
I am tired of the weight. I live under the scars, and decay under the weight, the weight, the weight of these memories. I am tired of forgiving, and never forgetting. I don’t want to remember.
I feel the softness of the grass underneath me, and I allow the weight of the world to fall on my shoulders. I feel the burn of them, these memories, as they alight on my eyes; I feel the weight of the walls, the sunlight, the night, that night; I can never forget the fear, the night. I’ve sunken; only the lightness of acceptance bubbles up to the surface.
I can give no more. I am bowed, I am finished.
There is so little I can do.
I am lost.