05.23.17 – half love
I am tired of being the subject of half love.
When I am loved, I am loved like the tide; almost, almost hitting the dunes, then receding. That love is still enough to erode the dunes, though. Nature has no regard for “almost”.
You loving me halfway doesn’t mean you don’t love me. It means you’re afraid.
Half love has broken me more than any other kind of wound. No broken bone or harsh word has the power to rend like this does.
Knowing that I’ll only ever be somebody’s “almost” (almost perfect, almost good enough, almost worth loving all the way) has broken my heart a thousand times ove.
Being the subject of half love is like being caught in a rip current; you’re being pulled out to sea while in full view of the shore, and no one can hear you shouting over the waves.
The sky is beautiful and blue and the water is warm but you’re panicking because you’re just out of your depth; so near to safety and solid ground, but still being relentlessly pulled to isolation and uncertainty.
Half love has dropped me out of the clouds with no parachute and into the wild ocean. As the tide comes in, I am dashed against the rocks, and my soul fractures and shatters on impact. All the pieces of me go flying and I am forced to collect all my ghosts.
Sometimes I’ll think I’ve got them all, but ultimately I know I’ll never be whole again because every once in a while a piece of me will run by and whisper their names before vanishing into smoke.
I will never be complete again.
I am haunted by my missing pieces.
(It is because of them that I’ll never be alone.)