2003-06-05
12:27 a.m.

"To be consumed again, oh I know would be the death of me." ~Sarah McLachlan, Wait

I long to live these thrills in past tense. “I loved him.” “He hurt me.” Not “I love him.” Not “He’s hurting me.” Not to let the sinking stifle my voice. I want to rise up outside of it all. To let the stinging succumb to a numbness I will eventually be able to put away. The pain seems to trickle out in tiny fragments, these words, these shrivels of real, while the rest is a farce. And this is the only way to make it true, to prove that I have existed, even if I may not be here now, I was there then, and it happened. I breathed. I lived. I felt. Because feeling is all I have, and all I will be left with in the end. Sans skin, sans eyes or air, I will still feel, and the words are a semblance to that.