Place of Leaves

I am completely exhausted. Fried. Depleted. Lack. Away.

I cannot find any energy to put towards this tumultuation any longer. Not that I have done much in the past few months. I fear being avoidant. Fear I am the problem. That I am not trying. Where is it? That drive. The desire. Anything at all. It’s all on my shoulders. Though my back is breaking. Hairline spine fractures daily. I get so overwhelmed I shut down. It’s my whole life. The connection is fragile yet impenetrable.

I have changed. I am not the person she loved. If she ever loved anything but what I gave. And I hesitate to blame, to place fault and deduct reaction. I want to be alive. And I am not. I am anything but.

I am a fog. I am the downpour. I am the curtain before the show. Ripped down instead of parted. I am a container. Fill me up but make sure you poke a hole in the bottom.

I miss myself. More than I miss her.

I feel like a failure. I feel like a pest. I feel like an inconvenience. I am startled at the sounds. I am startled by my own voice. I don’t have the familiarity to hold this anger without throwing it at the wall. Over and over again. Banging and slamming all the doors and throwing the furniture. I don’t have it in me. I say I don’t know what to do. But I do. I am just afraid I am wrong. And afraid of the loss of the building. I don’t remember what it felt like to be secure. I am on edge and she is on edge and we both dread coming home. I dread the finality. I need to calculate it. Clarify terms and conditions. I became exactly what she thought I was. The whole time. But I don’t have to be. I don’t have to be trapped. I don’t have to owe anyone. Though I immediately go there; I immediately take it and hold it but I don’t create anything with it. It is malleable but my hands are broken. I am tired of causing harm. I am tired of hearing the cries and the anguish and doing nothing.

I am tired of feeling like I have nothing to give. If only I could give. Or if only I could let go.