Dear Diary. . . /Too tired to be special/
(I don’t feel like a writer today.)
It’s easy to urge us to keep loving.
To keep our hearts open and warm. To resist the icy winds pain creates.
It’s easy to tell us not to change. Explain how special we are.
How very rare our gifts are.
How very warm our bosoms feel.
I wish it was also that easy to see the pain so palpable our hearts are crushed under the weight.
To feel the tears everywhere else, but where they’re supposed to be.
I wish you could understand that our emotional stores are out of glue and tape and yet the cracks in our hearts are nowhere near covered.
The gaping wounds are nowhere near healed. There’s hardly even a clot.
Maybe it’d be easier to understand that the warmth you cherish so much ran cold a long time ago and it takes too much effort to be kind, to be nice, to produce even a semblance of heat.
Our stores have run dry.
There’s no gas. We’re out of tape. Glue finished a while ago.
Rightly so. Our hearts have sustained too many injuries. It’s almost abnormal.
Maybe if we were less. . .
Less loving, less empathetic, less warm. . .
Less of everything that makes us so special.
Maybe, just maybe the heat would return to our veins again.
Maybe. . .
‘Special’ feels like a curse now.
A cross too heavy to bear.