I literally can’t make my fingers type any words. I’ve never been able to write or say or even think precisely what I wanted to, and just now, given the opportunity, I can’t make my fingers move.
It’s been a long time coming, this complete surrender to rejection. In line for a concert this weekend, I stood directly behind the one man I’ve ever loved and got to get a good solid look at the back of his head for a good solid hour. If fear and disappointment and heartbreak could take human form, that little man would be IT. Four years later, I’m still riding that wave of rejection and God, it seems as if you too, at any moment, could snatch the carpet out from under me and leave me in my empty-room life.
I yearn to be touched. Ever since that pivotal day when he told me he just couldn’t do it anymore and held my hand for the last time, I’ve yearned for it, craved it: sick with longing for something I couldn’t find. They say that hope deferred makes the heart sick, and at this point - I can’t remember “well”. I’m always wriggling out of people’s embraces because I’m afraid of wanting just their closeness just too much. I’ve internalized this need - for years now, everyday - and have since developed this disgusting, masochistic self-dependence that I can’t seem to break.
The deep darkness is gone - for you, Spirit, are here, and in your rich, thick, tangible presence the demons cannot stay. But my heart is an empty room, with a locked door, and I’m forever searching for a key to that door that I threw away long ago. How can I ever open it to anyone if I can’t find that motherfucking key?
If I don’t let you hug me, don’t be surprised.