Blood and Coffee

My heart is breaking. The right angles of emotion pushing into a soft white wall, shifting the space of the brick into a shape that is less than what was intended. Her eyes mock me. Her head tilts to the side, observing and reading the air between us. The sweater she wears is painted in colors not known by her heart. She expresses vulnerability to me in her words but her head-tilted action allows no space for another heart to look upon and experience her life next to her. To not comprise her soul and her authenticity was my dream, to observe her life next to her but not shade the light that would shine on her, maybe even to hopefully magnify it onto her, to accelerate and elevate her soul to her potential. But that requires an opening and the opportunity to see her. She shuts off possibility of love by tugging your hand along and showing you probability of love. I fell in love when the world was ending. The wet air that I pull in cracks in my throat as my chest contracts. The muscles and ribs of my torso can no longer play it cool. The emotion and exhaustion and confusion of twelve months release in shivering tension under a hot shower head. I think to myself that this is how it ends, that this is the year it all comes out and my past self ignites and destroys and dissolves. I think to myself that this is when all of the lies and ideas of who I am fall aside for a truth that rests, waiting, in my chest. I press my head onto the tile at the front of the shower and clamp my hands and arms onto my own neck and shoulders, feeling force and strength… a reality that’s hard to ignore. My own strength and my own pain and my own ability intrigue me. They attract me to that option of an obliteration, an exit, a fucking bailing. It’s attractive to my heart to feel nothing and to become nothing, to exit this world that I’ve fucked.