living-venus-writes

[living-venus-writes]

The bitter, hot, heavy weight of disappointment sticks in the center of my chest like black tar.

It drips between my ribs.

It squeezes my heart.

It boils in my throat.

It wriggles inside me like a once living thing clawing to find air.

The harder it fights, the more it suffocates me and leaves me to drown from the inside out.

[living-venus-writes]

I fucking hate my job. I hate the people I work with. I hate my boss. I hate having sentience. I hate having a useless degree. I hate America. I hate that I can't do math. I hate that I can't get things right. I hate that I don't feel fulfilled. I hate that I'm creative with no outlet. I hate that I'm in this fat, cumbersome body. I hate that my hair hasn't grown AT ALL since I fucked everything up and cut it. I hate that I'm tired and angry and sad all the time. I hate that I'm cursed with charm. I hate that the future is fucked and I can't do a single fucking thing. I hate that I need a cry. I hate that I have to see people all the time. I hate feeling selfish for wanting to be alone.

[living-venus-writes]

I Resign

.

.

.

I don't think that "acceptance" is the right name for the final stage of grief.

I really think "resignation" is more appropriate.

I don't think people simply "accept" that they lost a loved one, but they simply resign to their life without them.

I don't think I can "accept" that my dreams are flickering out. I am resigned to the future without them.

I can't "accept" that my hopes for my life are being systemically snuffed out. However, I am resigned to pretend I can fill my life with new aspirations.

Smaller aspirations... Ones that I can stuff into boxes.

I am afraid that I can only "resign" myself to a small life. A life that will brush kindly against others but certainly not a life that will garner a great deal of notice.

What have I tried to achieve so much for? The degrees? The certificates? The accolades? What has it all meant, just to feel a hollow "resignation?"

The five stages of grief:

1. Denial: But I'm still so young! But the world is so big! But I have so much talent!

2. Anger: How can it be that they refuse to make space for me? Must I do it myself? Must I do everything by myself?

3. Bargaining: Perhaps it's not my time yet. It will certainly come. It has to. It must.

4. Depression: It's not fair. Nothing is fair. My life is nothing. There is no thing. I am a void.

5. Resignation: It will be small. It will be simple. My time in the sun will not come but I will be content. I will be comfortable. That is all you can be.

The lush petals of the bouquets that bloom into my wants and hopes and dreams and goals have all withered and fallen. They blow around in the hollow parts of my chest.

I can feel them...

When I get a pain just over my left breast...

That's just the empty victory of "resignation" slowly collecting dust in my old fantasies.

The butterflies of my dreams are slowly turning into moths of life.

Their wing beats have slowed and some have halted.

I am tired of them.

I am simply tired.

Time to think of small dreams.

[living-venus-writes]

You

Achilles Come Down and The Song of Achilles hurt more when you feel like the Achilles in the relationship. Sure, You might look shiny, confident, and adept but that You is your own greatest weakness.

The weight isn't because of any sort of greatness but the expectation You places upon yourself. This weight includes expectations that others put on You to take up the space you do.

Achilles didn't have to be the greatest of Greeks but he suffers because he has to become that monumental thing that no one really knows how to be. I place the expectation to be this person that no one can really ever be and yet it destroys me to fall short.

Patroclus, my Patroclus, gracefully placed some of the weight on his own shoulders to help me reach even higher. We succeed hand-in-hand because we see each other for the heros, muses, miracles, marvels that we are NOW not only what COULD be.

We are emboldened and fulfilled by one another. And isn't that the sweetest gift of all? To drop the mantle, remove the helm, to cease being the thing that gets in the way of existing simply? That abstract, heavy, and complex You falls apart with Patroclus, because you are you.

[living-venus-writes]

Eden

I've become disillusioned by the price and pomp of death. Instead, bury me deep in the forest next to the man who loves me most. Lay us side-by-side and let our faulty bodies decay in the earth that housed our love. Let my body fertilize the ground where flowers grow and make my spot a bit brighter. Let my love become a strong tree shooting towards heaven and I'll find him there. His arms will be opened to me and I'll eternally find joy in his touch as we gaze on our small patch of paradise forever.

[living-venus-writes]

I Don't Really Sing Anymore...

I don't really sing anymore.

It's not because I don't want to

Nor because it doesn't bring me pleasure,

My voice doesn't carry like it used to do.

I'm not very good anymore.

I don't really sing anymore.

People just don't listen.

People don't care to hear me

And that's alright.

I don't really want to be heard.

I don't really sing anymore.

But I always thought my voice was a gift.

Something to be respected.

And the last time I sung,

Was when we said goodbye to you.

I don't really sing anymore.

And I think it's because it makes me sad.

It reminds me of my shaky voice,

Tears running down my face,

And long, dark, nights.

I don't really sing anymore.

And I'm sorry for it.

Not sorry enough to pick up the strains

Or hum a melody again.

I just can't find the song.