8-10

How does a person learn to let go?

It’s easy to forget, that’s my problem. I close my eyes and try to think of why I’m angry, but I remember instead how your lips fit mine so perfectly and the way your neck tastes and how when you took the time to hold me tightly, it pressed out the darkness and I had no room left in my chest to be worried or anxious or jealous.

And then it swells up in me, remembering that, and your bare feet and silly songs and sharp mind and nervous heart, and terror that I’ve made a terrible mistake sweeps through. I reach out compulsively, my fingers and my brain want to touch you.

Thank you for letting that pass.

Because after a little time, I remember when you pulled away. I remember how you put your effort into making sure she was comforted, how everyone else seems to get your care and sympathy but when I need it, you leave me cold until my need makes me frantic and furious and unrecognizable.

I recall how angry you get at me when I try to express what I need. I’m not supposed to need from you, I suppose. Maybe you see that everyone else does--am I supposed to be strong enough to do without? 

All I see is you pouring yourself away and I am jealous in a visceral, ripping sense. 

You told me you can talk to her, but you wouldn’t talk to me. You got angry. You’re there for her, but when I am drowning in darkness, I am bothering you. I want to pour myself into you but instead I am a distraction. You pick me up when you feel like it, examine, scold, and set back away when the urge passes.

How is any of this fair. How is any of that love.

I need to let you go. You are a rock in my pocket. You are the pills by the bathtub. You will drag me to my end, loving you and desperately wanting to be loved back. Even a little. I crawl for scraps. I am a broken, pitiful being, and I want to kick my own ribs until they break. I hate myself, watching this weak animal scratch at you, dirtied and pathetic.

Let go, let go, let go you stupid woman.