Maybe if I were filled with vulnerability, this wouldn’t be so hard.
The logic of love is often understood to be a deep root that grows within our organs. But it seems I had trimmed the stems of this verdure before it even had the chance to bloom.
To think that love could adorn my demons was, in itself, a kind of hilarity. But no amount of affection could tame what had long been rotting inside me. Somewhere along the path, I lost the little control I had over what hurt me. I grew from the pain injected into my bones, finding unusual comfort in the chaos that devours my being.
I did not choose to build barricades that stopped me from falling; they stood around me from the very beginning. Isolation was a friend I held hands with until I neglected the passage of time, forgetting that it was a sign of consistent change.
Maybe if I had been taught that weakness wasn’t a flaw sewn into the fabric of my being, my temples would have lain comfortably on your shoulder. Now I fear that if I passed my weight to you, the thread of gold would loosen from how heavily it sits on your soul.
Inside my horrors, I wanted you to see the mess. Maybe slip, maybe trip. I waited and waited for your reaction, thinking of nothing but the worst. Strange… how you sat with me — soiled, sinking, and still.
With the constant pull, I find myself tethered to an attachment I can neither accept nor abandon, pushing reality further away as I nurse the scabs of hurt caused by the friction of my confrontations and your excuses. What is it that I’m doing wrong?
To grow fond of someone incapable of creating space for devotion was something to be laughed at. Do not turn me into an actor of love — I am not to be watched.
But, oh, how I loved to perform.
Our unraveling soon caught my throat in a tight grip, but not once did I try to break free. Other people tried to pull me, but I developed a puerile talent for arching my head high enough to breathe, denying the hands dragging me out of the depths. Because even though it drowned us, I would rather turn the very shade of blue you loved.
Funny how my life has shifted from vibrant to livid. It took time to piece together the shards of my fractured mirror before I saw that the crooked turns of my story were not solely mine to answer for. I no longer trace every wound back to you. Perhaps becoming a patchwork of all the tears, pain, and joy is the nurturing caress of the universe.
To remember the past is to no longer get stuck in it. Maybe it was the silence given by my mother, a kiss goodbye to my wilful dreams of being more than just a ghost of disappointment.
Maybe it was your father who kept you far from what it means to be at home with someone who could give you commitment.
Maybe it was just me, and my pride in exchange for living in cruelty.
Or maybe it was the color of our bruises that reminded us of the sea, and how it taught us to stay afloat. But never did we learn how to hold each other without drowning.
- Heleina Erin Dela Cena
(Illustration by Chynna Mae Santos/FEU Advocate)