If not here then where...?
Things can be very clouded
When you're in mourning, one many around here don't know...and one you didn't choose.
It's hard to not spill out your heart on a page
That you've been gifted, with divine timing, instead, to use.
One you more than often, just to be able to smile and exist
Have no choice but to bury and hide.
A place you've come to adopt, in lieu,
As a replacement for that best friend you once had by your side...
I only ever intended to get the emotions out here
Rather than discuss or display them "out there", in, real life".
I amplify what I'm feeling through poems to process and release them, rather than keep them near,
In order to go about my business, strive to be good, never meaning to cause strife.
Poetry in a heart beat, in my hand, became that for me...
My new confidante. My chalice. My outlet!
But now my words on here have tainted good things.
For doing that, I utterly regret...
Rebecca was my heart, soul and my spirit's escape!
She was the only one I could discuss with rawness, the most tragic but real things!
Between us: being held hostage, repeated beatings, and rape...
I still listen to her last voicemail, the call I didn't manage to take. My heart still sinks every time my phone rings...
Through my mistake, I now feel I've ruined poetry for some, and caused harm for another, by my emotions purely missing the mark;
I upset people inadvertently; trying to turn my hurts and pain to art;
Attempting to find my light, in my dark.
All whist still being made to miss having
That one person... that treasure who was "mine".
She was the only one who knew as much, and would reassure me, as I would always her,
That everything was going to be fine.
But it wasn't fine for her! Life was cruel and unfair. She was far too young to depart!
She was taken. She was stolen.
Too passionate for this world to contain...
Ultimately, so kind, it killed her physical heart.
Thus I'm clouded. I'm hurting. I have no excuse, of course.
I feel like I've ruined so much with my turning tears and fears into ink.
Despite that I feel now so much remorse.
Without writing to replace her it's like I don't function at all.
I don't know how to walk, or talk, or think!
I'm trying to lift my spirits daily; to "channel her goodness'.
Spend intentional, present time, loving my babies, and dancing.
So many of my poems about love are about the kind she brought into the world -
So many are nothing to do with romancing!
I sing daily, sure
But there's deep mourning
In the every line I sing from my heart of a song.
Our phone calls, as a record, could be as much as 9 and a half hours long!
On average, they were usually around 4...
I'm regretting using my pen, and I'm missing my friend.
I could tell everything to her without any worry or fear.
Thus I'm clouded by all that. I feel responsible for my wreckage.
I feel full of sorrow... and can't exist beyond "it's been almost a year..."
The only altar I place myself down to isn't in a church.
It's at home. It's Bec's small but symbolic little shrine.
The only thing I'm worshipping at present is learning how to embody her traits, and fulfil a destiny she aspired to but never reached,
In trying to heal, see my own worth, and to use it all to do good with mine.
One of the first things that came over me was how it felt heaven-sent. Being lead here felt so meant to be!
For I hadn't been able to write at all since November.
For the timing of being given a place for my feelings and verbosity was in sync with the loss
That I'd been playing over and over in my mind since October. Impossible daily not to remember.
I could tell everything to Bec, without any judgement
And I attempted to use here to do the same.
But now I can't. I can speak to her as I do, yet silence follows, which hurts.
All that remains is her star, and her name.
It's such a waste that she's not here anymore!
And I probably shouldn't continue to tell my everything here.
But if not here then where else? Notebooks and pens = I have plenty.
They've remained on the shelf, too, building layers of dust, for an entire year...
It's a hard call to make.... In this wake
Of too much harm been done now. Too much hurting. Too much inflicting. Too much shame.
Is it safer for anyone to not write here anymore?
For as someone that sought to help not harm with my words, I should probably instead see this as the moment to open a window,
And politely exit via the inside, after quietly closing this door...