My life is riddled with what ifs, as most people's are. But even knowing that, my regrets still lie heavily on my shoulders, still stuck in the pit of my stomach, still clings to me like a second skin.
"On watching someone you love, love somebody else..."
Sierra Demulder's voice echoes in my mind: love somebody else... somebody else.
She floats around that tiny apartment, and it reminds me of a ghost trapped in the place she died in. And again, it reminds me of another of her poems.
"But what do I do with all this leftover love?
My hands were built for crawling on.
How do I write myself gently.
How do I not worship the shipwreck that stranded me here?"
Even though I say I'm tired of sadness, there's a part of me that isn't. There's a part of me that welcomes it - no, that clings to it. It's much easier to be sad than it is to not be. It's easier to fall into despair... It makes me think about a man thrown overboard:
He is floating on his back, staring blankly at the star-ladden night sky. The stars shine like diamonds but the light just rolls of his eyes. He is breathing, but only softly. Breathing without effort, breathing as if he's practicing to drown.
Then the mermaids come with no song as a warning. Hands emerge from the water, and they are worse than the Grim Reaper's. The sky is black against the stars, but the sea - even blacker. And when the hands pull him into the deeper darkness, there is no whimper. There is only silence.
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