To the Rain

My head hurts. I had a dream last night that a thousand spiders crawled inside of my body through my mouth. They made my body their home. And by the time they were done with me, my insides were nothing. They had eaten my heart, my intestines, my liver, my lungs. They all came up through the cuts I had left myself on my wrists. The ones that reminded me that I failed. And they mocked me. My scars, and the spiders. When I woke up I so desperately wanted my insides to be hollow. I do not want to feel anymore. My emotions are overzealous. I had another dream that rain was coming in through my opened window. I heard it cry. I sang it a beautiful melody – I cried with it. And it danced and cried right with me. It knew me. It questioned what I was doing on the roof. It questioned who I was thinking about. I told the rain that I’m trying so hard. I asked what I should do. Its simple taps against the glass told me that it would be okay. But rain always does that. And it knew I wasn’t okay. I’m not okay. I do not deserve what I am getting. The rain said to me:

You’re too available, dear. And he knows that. He knows you would do anything in your physical and mental power for him. And he has everyone fooled, even you. He has them fooled that he’s a good guy, that he’s a real man. But if that’s the case, would he do what he’s doing? Why waste your words on someone who does not care about you? Someone that only cares about himself? You’re so desperately hoping that he’ll wake up one day and think you’re this amazing person because you’ve been there. Because you want to help. And you’re the only one selfless enough to do it. But he is so blind to you. Yet his eyes and his heart are wide open to her. He’s not that different after all. You are waiting for a crazy, beautiful thunderstorm in the dry depths of Arizona. Your waiting is useless. And at what point do you decide to be smart and walk away? You are coherent and present and very aware of the surroundings. You know this isn’t right. You know he’s not giving all of himself to you. And you know he doesn’t care to. So what are we doing here. You are consciously choosing to hurt yourself. . .why? Are you a masochist?

I thought about what it had said – its wise words. But, all women are masochists, aren’t we? We consciously choose to have a part of our flesh ripped open by a man that we love. We consciously choose to take a human being that was inside of us and push it out to give it life. We consciously stay with men that would not care whether we were alive or dead. We consciously fall in love despite its unknowing consequences, and when we get heartbroken, it is oh so awful. But whether it’s a few months, or a few years later, we try again and go back for more. . .why?

And it said the most beautiful thing: within your writing, you will find yourself.

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