Another Circle.

‘Nuff said.

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There’s this really fucked up sort of Hell
for a particularly fucked sort of man.
There’s no demons, no brimstone.
No lake of fire. No ironic punishment.
It’s something far more cruel.
Far more tangible.
More simple.
It’s this persistent sense of loneliness,
somewhere in the middle of you.
It’s cold.
It’s mean.
And it only happens–
not always, of course–
but sometimes,
of course,
only makes it that much worse.
But it happens
when the one you love,
the one who loves you,
holds you in her arms,
And tells you she missed you.
When she whispers how much she loves you.
And all you hear–
not just listen to,
but hear–
are the doubts,
the lies you tell yourself.
About how she’ll leave.
One day. Someday.
How she’ll find something,
anything at all,
to give up on you.
And she’d be right to.
Because it’s you.
This cold, dead thing in her arms.
Even after fifteen years.
All she’s done.
All she’s said.
All you’ve been through together.
All the evidence to the contrary.
Even after all of that,
there’s this nagging ache.
And it comes from knowing,
from being fully aware,
that you should feel something–
her love, her warmth, her words–
and of course it’s all there–
you’re not
incapable of feeling–
but you don’t feel it.
And you want to feel it.
But you can’t.
Because it’s how you’ve always felt.
Maybe not always.
But sometimes.
And sometimes–
not always,
but sometimes–
you find yourself wishing,
that you never had to feel anything at all.
you could just be dead,
and cold,
and unfeeling,
all the time.
Because all you ever really want
is to feel the way you know she makes you feel.
All the time.
But sometimes you don’t.
You can’t.
Because something’s wrong with you.
Deep inside.
This mean, awful little part of you.
The part of you that,
she’ll leave you over.
One day.
But she’s still here.
Lying how much she loves you.
Because she doesn’t know
you’re just this cold,

Another Circle. Steve Arviso. 2018.

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