It is a realization that I must admit with no small measure of pain. I have wrestled with this, tried to ignore it, tried to beat it to the ground inside myself. Instead, it has resulted in a weakness. I have hung on to you. My heart has gone mad. I make irrational decisions. You, on the other hand, have accepted the situation with the equanimity of an old man on death row, calm in the belief that the end signifies a better, albeit unknown beginning somewhere.
But my chest is twisted at the idea that I will not be in that future.
And then there is him. The Other. The one whose siren call I cannot resist. He pulls me to him in ways that are unimaginable, in the dark secret places that breathe desire. The Universe conspires in the magnetism.
Weak. That is what I am. Pathetic and weak. I know that you love me. I know you have and will further defy deities, forces of nature. Beyond notions of juvenile romance, you do not fear the unknown. You are strong, have proven your strength while I am reduced to a foolish and vain shadow trying to hold on to forces going in opposite directions, knowing it is futile, knowing that the longer I hold on, the longer I hurt you. And yes, him, too.
I used to think that letting go is the path of the weak. I thought that holding on was fighting the good fight. I did not know that in doing so, I was making you the enemy, making you the victim.
Confession is not good for the soul. I see these words I have written and I see myself. There is no cleansing in this self mutilation.
