When I Am With You I Am Still Alone

alone when I am with you
Photo by Julia Volk

I am trapped in thoughts I know aren’t true but, I think them anyway.

I am meant to be alone.

My faith is not shaken, though; I just fail to see through all the signs most of the time.

I am not shaky; I am shaking the ground beneath me.

And don’t you dare speak as if you were there, don’t you tell these stories as if they were yours. They are mine to tell.

I am still alone; I am always alone, even in your presence.

I am not waiting for anyone or anything other than deliverance. My dreams are the only place where I can find salvation, where I can swim free, where I wallow with willows.

My thoughts take me to places where I can disappear.

Such a frightening place to be, for most people.

To me, though, it feels like home. To be one with the darkness.

I miss many things, things I can’t even tell were real, if they even exist.

Fuck, I am not sure I even exist.

Buzz-buzzing their secrets through my pillows and into my sleep.

Is it any wonder I barely get any? Sleep, that is.

Choices are curses. See, I wouldn’t have to choose life; I wouldn’t have to choose how to live. I wouldn’t know which names matter, which ones to keep.

Yet, my name was scratched off you so easily, without second-guessing yourself; a bandaid removed.

And I am envious, so envious it makes me sick to be taken by such unfortunate, unforgiving truth. I was an easy choice to go with; I was an easy choice to let go of.

You will fight me but, you won’t fight for me, and believe me when I say this one, you will lose. When it comes to misery and heartache, I always win.

Common sense says you will regret this as everyone else before you did.

They always do.

But is it strange that I don’t want you to regret anything?

I want you to slowly forget me.

I want you to wake up from this dream remembering fragments of me, just enough to make you feel something but not nearly enough to remember my name, or my face, my voice, my smell, my touch, or my taste.

This part of the story will be yours, knowing you had something but can never quite know what it was.

I am letting the smoke create clouds of wishful thinking around my head.

Now, it is my turn to hide.

Now, I run.

I will run as fast as I can and, you can chase me, feed off me all you need but know this: my flesh, my blood, my very bones are toxic.

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