Unsent?! Oops!!3 Katie Wesley: Alright, I got a little cheesy in this one, but what can I say? I just got the itch to FULLY describe my pain.
May 5, 2004
To the Loving Couple,
That stupid song keeps playing in my head. No matter what I do or who I’m with, I can’t stop these thoughts.
I put on a smile –so as not to cause others grief, but the record player keeps skipping in my head. The song -the thoughts play over and over and over.
You’re happiness is my hurt. So shouldn’t your hurt be my happiness? No, it doesn’t work that way in my world. You both think that your love excuses your unremitting deeds. Don’t you know that your love for each other hurts me more than if it had meant nothing? Don’t you know that the wool removed from my eyes deepens my wounds as I start to understand that nothing was real?
I never knew either one of you; I only thought I did. The two of you were my life, accept that you were only using me as a middleman. I guess it’s supposed to be this way. Cutting me out makes your passionate, burning love and lust much easier to attain. My job was only to deliver feelings back and forth between the two of you -the feelings I thought were meant for me. But, then I stop and think: “Did they cut me out?” or “Was I ever even really there?”
If I stand still, sharp edges press against my skin –like a dull ache. I can’t stand still, though; I have to keep going. So, I turn to leave, but no matter which way I shift spikes jab and break into my flesh. The ache pours from my heart relentlessly. As I struggle, the blades turn and twist deeper. My life blood drains and drips to the ground --it knows its place. When I finally manage to pull those spikes out, I close my eyes and pray for the rest to disappear. So tired. Because the temptation of a pain free life taunts me, I take another step and another thrust of reality. On and on it goes, never stopping, never ending.
I shouldn’t blame the spikes –the inanimate pieces of poisoned memories. It’s not their fault. After all, I remember placing them along my path. Only in my oblivion, I seem to remember planting what appeared to be flowers.
Since, I imagined the blades and spikes to be tulips and lilies; maybe I’m only imagining the pain. Maybe I’ve imagined this whole life. In any case, I was never really there –never where I thought I was. My cozy, warm and safe life was just a forced hallucination. As the lies wore off, my eyes opened to an old truth: safety does not exist. I don’t know where I am. Is this where I’ve been all these years? Everything seems to be in its place. But now with unglued eyes, I realize the fairytale was narrated to me solely for the benefit of my temporary appeasement.
My soft bed is actually a bed of ashes. My coziest chair –a carefully planted briar patch. My journal of truth holds only lies; lamps radiate darkness, and my warm home is no home at all. It’s a cold and drafty cave made of hard stone and bedrock.
What you’ve done has to mean something, or else it will have all been for nothing, right? In my home of illusion, there would have been nothing to mean something.
Don’t worry. Your decision does hold meaning:
It means we were nothing, and
I was never there.
