My Hidden Lives // Prose

47. about true love(s), and spring

(how little you know of her)

(how little you know of her)

It was a cold, sunny day – in the city, parents put careers on hold to walk their little children (almost like pets) around the parks and show them off to those of us meandering the streets on our own. I drank in the violent light and the cool air, grateful for the paradox. This was both my favorite, and most hated time of year.

Careful if anyone was looking, I skipped a few steps to the rhythm from my earphones and swirled around. It was the first day of spring, and finally, I was in love. The season ahead seemed promising.

I don’t know what changed in the hour or two between that carefree walk and now.

I could say:
Memories of another spring flooded my mind, one that showed just as much promise.
The worst few months I ever lived through.

Or, perhaps:
He didn’t call. I was waiting on an invitation for a meal of sunshine and flower-gazing, but what I got was insolence.
I couldn’t get over it. It was too familiar and I buried myself yet again in my own mind, in my phobias and paranoia’s, in my emotional cocoon of whatever-the-Hell-happens-will-happen.

A group of old people at the seniors’ home this morning had said in unison – you only get one true love in life. What did they mean by that? I am nowhere near to even its half, but already, I’ve said „I love you“ four times, and in those moments, I did not consider myself a liar.

Suddenly, a weight fell on my chest and panic joined the other two P’s in my constant struggle for insanity. The power of three. What if the people you love never really feel it, what if they only hear? What if I am buried too deep under linens, beneath layers of skin and muscle: what if my marrow is too well protected, because I drank a lot of milk as a child, to ever leak through?

To this I say:
I would break every bone in my thick, sturdy body to prove what can now only be guessed at. Willingly crawl from underneath linen, peel off skin and rip muscle to put the critics of my heart to rest.

This is not defiance. This is surrender.

And if you still have doubts about me, at my most naked – inverted guts filled with a few odd years of pain trailing behind in all their ugliness – you should look to yourself for the cause.



You think, therefore you are.

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