A Bloody Prose

That salty bloodlust for survival

I not just learned how to identify it

I was obsessed by it

I just happen to have been lucky to stand above noticing it too much

Excited, as well as grateful, that I didn’t have to grow accustom to my paralyzing terror  It was simply a stupefying wrong, so out of touch of with my instincts

I was in emotional freefall 

Numb to what it all meant, this version of what the long run could look like.

I was possessed by this reoccurring daydream about how it would be so wonderful

to share my love

who I was

what I thought about how much I loved them

what I worried about

the things that thrilled me, made me laugh, made me cry, made me think in new ways and of course all of my most personal secrets. 

I’d treasure that and participate with enthusiasm and gratitude for sharing me that way. 

I though she also sought that. 

My foolish heart seeing that ‘with me’ was desired 

So I didn’t know. 

And that’s a little sad.  No, that’s a lot sad…and my loving convinces not. 

Nor changes as is. 

I’ve learned clarity…and will recognize authentic in the future. 

I’m mournful for her ways. 

I doubt her success to obtain those cherished aspects. 

Because she fears; you cannot seduce love with empty vows of always…

not for long anyways.

I used to take a pounding heart as a very good sign,

my spirit whispered, “be true to your love” 

Eventually I realized that terror does similar things,

just maybe I got it wrong. 

When I should have been running away for my life, I was letting my guard down and moving in closer.

But really, what good does it do to talk about sad things in the past anyway?

Those bones have dried out and give nothing to the living

Just something to stumble over whenever the notion to take a stroll through the graveyard might be something invigorating.