I'm coming clean about my lovesick itch that can't be scratched.
"Start a blog centered around vulnerability," past Lo boasts as current Lo sobs in the shower with a heavy heart and a very apparent lack of blog posts.
How can I write about vulnerability with a guarded heart? Did I self-install the barbed wire fence that surrounds it or was it placed there by my enemies? It's hard to say, so I choose not to.
I was 4-years-old when I learned of abandonment, 7-years-old when I learned to feel unsafe in my body, 10-years-old when I felt the first pang of unrequited love, and 24-years-old when I learned that some wounds run so deep they form thick scars, permanently visible to the world, and it's up to you whether you choose to own them or cover them up.
Maybe that's why I can't write lately; I keep trying to find a silver lining in a wound that, for now, doesn't want me to attach a lesson to it. It wants me to fucking feel it.
So, at the mercy of vulnerability, I write to you this:
I'm beginning to accept that maybe I'm too damaged to fall in love in a normal way.
I don't remember the last time I came home from a night out without feeling empty as soon as I locked my door from the inside.
I have nothing to give. My battery has been blinking low for months but I continue to ignore the red flashing light.
My best friend tells me I carry a deep well of sadness, yet I see it as an unquenchable thirst. I ache for something to finally feel right.
The dance floor, once my recharging station, has become a pit of mud in which I drag my feet to keep up with the rhythm.
My favorite songs, the same ones I used to get on my knees for, now fall flat, registering as elevator tunes.
I dig shallow graves to fill the void, ending up in the same arms I thought I unraveled from years ago, because I tend to mistake familiarity for safety.
Do we ever stop searching for love, or are some of us just better at shoving that shit down?
I can't write because I'm lovesick, and I'm lovesick because I can't write. So I stop writing.
In my personal well of sadness, I call upon gratitude. It's natural to repress carrying a broken heart and to not want to write about it on the internet when the world is aching; when Palestinian children go starving buried underneath rubble. I recognize the empathetic souls who are hurting along with the world, carving the way forward with an open heart, sharing our art, speaking up and allowing ourselves to feel the hard feelings. We unite through compassion and love, never through hard walls of division and avoidance.
Oh hey look at me, I found a silver lining.
To educate yourself further on what's happening in Palestine, check out @operationolivebranch on Instagram, where you can also access an extensive spreadsheet of organizations to donate to at the link in their bio.
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