There are two marks you can leave on somebody: one by love and one by the opposite of love. Either of them brings one similar emotion: a sudden flushing of the face - with shame? How, I ask, how can one not die of shame by the latter marking? How can one not wish they could sink under 8 feet of solid earth whenever they have to lay eyes on the mark they've left? How can they confront it without suddenly having to lower their eyes in utter humiliation and wish they could take it back or be suddenly and swiftly punished for it?
I can go on and on about this. I feel like I'm obsessing now, but only because the lack of 'obsession' from everyone else is twice as painful. The swift, smooth transition back to normality, shoving underneath the carpet even the subtle undercurrents that maybe there has been a bloody effing shift in the vibes of this home. Shoved. Underneath the carpet. Skeleton # 525 in the closet? Check.
I feel haunted by that skeleton. Haunted. It comes before my eyes again and again and again. My heart is constantly squeezed in a painful reminder and my lungs need to struggle to inflate and deflate. Am I alone in feeling, saying that things can never be the same?
Things will not, can not, ever be the same.
Markings of love. I close my eyes and try to dig up that image instead. Screw them tightly shut and reach out to shared heartbeats and whispered words of love. Surely, surely love is stronger than its evil nemesis? Its twisted opposite?
Love marks.
