The Poorest I’ve Ever Been

I think the saddest thing I’ve ever known

was consciously allowing myself to love less

after each time I’ve had my heart broken.

 

But even sadder

is how the passion that once had throbbed

through the marrow of my bones seeped

out of my skin,

evaporated out of my pores,

and disintegrated into the

soft summer breeze.

 

It escaped before I was even aware of it.

As if through my mourning, my love

had quit on me.

 

I picture my (now fleeted) love whipping

middle-aged women in the faces

(who feel like me, now – detached)

and suddenly, even if for just a moment,

they are alive.



Yet even sadder than this

is how I watched this happen.

I let my favorite part about myself

slowly vanish

from the tiny spaces between the vertebrae

of my spine – my foundation.

 

It was knowing and feeling my love leave my body

that slowly started suffocating me.

 

That very specific feeling of being

separate from yourself – 

like watching yourself as if your body has

become your shadow

and it lurks, and drudges on

like thick, damp cement running

indefinitely,

painfully,

slowly.

 

I think the real ache comes from the realization

of the atrophy itself

and watching it slowly die,

and worrying that, like people,

the feeling won’t allow itself to come back.

 

Every time I look myself in the eyes

I fear I’ve quit on myself, and that

I am the only person

who can see and feel

my love.

 

And I’ve realized,

that this,

is the poorest I’ve ever been.


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About laurenfedorko

Aspiring writer. English teacher. Philosophy: know more about the world than you did yesterday and lessen the suffering of others.
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