In a strange mix of common numbers and fondness for all things verbose we intertwined.
You started showing me the shards early on.
A blanket of ocean sized love could not put out the fireworks that light up and burned the ground of a rational human being when the flint accidentally got ignited.
These are the scars that don’t heal right.
This is the place where creativity and positive thinking collide with the reality of brain trauma and broken love that turns nuclear and lays waste to three hundred and fifty thousand miles of hope.
I, unfortunately, am not known as a quitter.
I, actually, know how to surrender.
To put up a white flag and hope that someone else is watching. Even when that someone else can’t be defined as an actual person or existence because, lord knows, no one can agree on anything including defeat.
Surrender is not releasing the idea of hope
but rather leaving the idea of your definition of hope behind for someone to replace it with something better.
This is not an easy task for the controlmonger.
Don’t let that idea sink in for a moment.
This is called claw marks scraping the sides of anything I let go of,
This is called taking a forty-thousand pound chest breath,
This is pulling eye-lids back and understanding that they may never grow back.
But for you, you broken-winged demon, determined to get back to hell, fire-breathing, raging ogre showing your best ugly,
All of which are also contained inside of me,
I see rain coming.
Sprinkling at first, then moving to showers.
Covering wetness to put out fires of unrequited pleas for mercy
soothing flares of sadness
putting to bed all of your unholiness that never were your truth.
I can’t promise you that you’ll forget hell,
But I can promise that you don’t have to live there.