The heart can be quite a messy thing.
Sometimes it’s as though it spews poison right into your body and takes you to places you don’t want to go…dark, cold and lonely places where even breathing is painful.
I don’t like that sometimes my own heart can feel so foreign to myself. It’s like a stranger carrying a heavy suitcase just walked into my house but instead of relaxing in my fold, he refuses to lay himself or his suitcase down.
How could this thing that beats quietly inside of me be capable of producing so much anguish?
Yes, the heart can be quite messy.
I’ve been starring at this mess for the last five months now. Moments of blissful existence intricately woven with moments of sheer torturous desperation creating one fabric that I cannot tell where the seams begin or end.
I’ve only ever been truly in love twice in my life.
First when I was sixteen.
And now…just at the cusp of my womanhood, at the outer edges of my thirties.
My heart doesn’t lend itself to falling so easily so when it does, even I most often can never decipher it.
People say so many things about love, how it should be and what makes it work. Everybody has some opinion or two and usually they talk from their own personal experience. And it’s good to listen to people. Sometimes. Other times, you have to do what’s right for you. The catch is, whether you listen to people or make your own decision, you have to live with the consequences.
I don’t know much about love…especially a man’s love for a woman. I only know what I saw my Dad give my Mom. And I wanted some of that.
I am the most inexperienced and insecure woman when it comes to men and their hearts.
So as I was falling in love the second time, I couldn’t help but want to do it right. I wanted to get it right and I wanted to plan the whole thing!
But of course you know how plans go, especially the ones that involve other living, breathing beings. Everything happened the way I didn’t expect it to.
I fell head over heels for a man who can give me nothing in return…or at least he chooses not to.
And therein lies part of the problem with love because at some point, it becomes a choice you make over and over again. You can’t rely on your feelings to sustain any kind of love. That’s just something feelings are not fully equipped to do.
At some critical point, love has to be a choice.
My love for him spills over like an over-flowing bucket beneath a dripping tap.
Gushes. Drips. Intense. Calm. Rigid. Soft. Consuming. Liberating.
He makes me want to look for the corners of myself and when I find them I always want to hand them back to him.
He makes me breathless just by existing.
We are so unlike each other and on paper the whole thing is ridiculous and would never work…but and yet he fits into me like he was made for me.
He smells so divine…so much so that his scent has imprinted itself on my memory and I smell him every time I think of him.
Even without saying a word, he seems to know how the pistons in my mind work.
He is not perfect…far from it.
He is raw, rugged and extremely complicated.
When he talks, his voice compels me to listen not only to what he verbalises but to everything else he says in-between the silences.
I swoon when he looks at me.
He is not more or less. He is just the way he should be. And that works for me.
He has broken my heart.
He has cut me open and left me there to bleed.
By not showing up for every word spoken, every knowing glance shared and every emotion evoked.
He didn’t choose me.
He didn’t show up for me.
He didn’t even try.
My heart is desperately broken, un-hinged and thirsty for wholeness. I don’t know what to do with it.
I could tell it tales of how he is not worthy of me in the first place and that it is his loss; or maybe I could distract it with thoughts and dreams of empires and world domination; or maybe I could remind it that if a guy is really into us, he would act no matter what.
But none of these would change the fact that it hurts so badly.
So I’ve decided the only thing I’m going to do is feel the pain and wait for the healing.
And so I write about him in hope that I can in the process write him out of my heart, mind and soul; that I can release him back into the great unknown and I can walk away from this.
I cannot undo the brokenness but I can wait for the wholeness.
I will not play human games with my broken heart. I will not hide my wound. I will let it out and learn to love myself through the pain. I will wait for the healing.
I will not rush it. There is no need to.
I will wait…and in time, my broken heart will piece itself back together again.
And maybe, just maybe…the third time I fall in love, it will finally be forever.