It may have happened before.
And maybe it'll happen again.
But every time, like a serial somnambulist shocked to wake up and find yourself teetering on a high-wire, you wonder how the fuck you let it happen. Again.
You let someone get under your skin. Not just that - you went ahead and built them a fucking serviced apartment under there.
And you did it without checking to see if they had further travel plans.
And they moved right in. Stayed; used the facilities.
Why not? There was a heated pool and room service. No need to pick up after themselves.
And then it happened. You woke up on that fucking high wire.
I break it off.
You break it off.
He/she breaks it off.
We break it off.
It doesn't matter.
Point is - it breaks off.
And everything you thought they were/ we were/ it was - is gone.
Your pleasure palace burned to a cinder, razed to the ground.
All That Was/Might Have Been is reduced to rubble - to a hard jagged shard left inside you like a molten splinter to gouge with vicious glee at the soft unguarded heart of you.
In the thick of the aftermath, every breath is blood.
But, the thing is, you've been to this circus before.
And so, you know that fortunately, at some point, the bleeding will stop.
And not so fortunately, all you can do till then is wait.
Wait till breathing is only merely excruciating...and then only painful.
Wait for the wounds to scab over. Wait for the scar tissue to come in. Wait for it all to eventually be just one more unevenly mended rent on the fabric of your existence.
And the irony is that it won't be the pain you'll resent.
It'll be the time - the time it'll take for that scar tissue to form; the time it'll take till you're you again.
When you aren't busy being utterly devastated, you'll find yourself mostly being really annoyed by that inconvenient little nugget of reality.
Because that shard is a voracious, persistent, many pointed little bitch and it won't let go of you easy.
A few weeks in, its bite will have dulled to the degree that you'll stop being constantly braced for impact. You'll manage to go about your day to day business doing a credible enough impression of a functional human adult.
But then, when you least expect it, someone somewhere will drop a word into the conversation - a word as random as Dremel, or as mundane as July. Or you'll see something as banal as AstroTurf, or as ubiquitous as sunlight. And suddenly that little bitch will shift and stick you with renewed vehemence.
Over time, though, that scar tissue will come in right and thick. The Shard will settle in and become a numbness within that remains largely inert. At the most sometimes, in maudlin moments, it might cause you a dull twinge - if you're the sentimental kind.
In time you'll forget it's there.
You'll forget that the numbness hosts a living wound.
And then someday in the future, you'll open your eyes and come to the sick realization that once more somehow, despite all your efforts to the contrary, you've landed on the same fucking high wire you swore you'd never so much as go near, let alone attempt to traverse.
And as the newly implanted remnant is in the process of ripping you a new one, as though that itself weren't punishment enough, every old forgotten shard inside of you will come screaming to life, as sharp and vociferous as the day it was born.
And maybe it'll happen again.
But every time, like a serial somnambulist shocked to wake up and find yourself teetering on a high-wire, you wonder how the fuck you let it happen. Again.
You let someone get under your skin. Not just that - you went ahead and built them a fucking serviced apartment under there.
And you did it without checking to see if they had further travel plans.
And they moved right in. Stayed; used the facilities.
Why not? There was a heated pool and room service. No need to pick up after themselves.
And then it happened. You woke up on that fucking high wire.
I break it off.
You break it off.
He/she breaks it off.
We break it off.
It doesn't matter.
Point is - it breaks off.
And everything you thought they were/ we were/ it was - is gone.
Your pleasure palace burned to a cinder, razed to the ground.
All That Was/Might Have Been is reduced to rubble - to a hard jagged shard left inside you like a molten splinter to gouge with vicious glee at the soft unguarded heart of you.
In the thick of the aftermath, every breath is blood.
But, the thing is, you've been to this circus before.
And so, you know that fortunately, at some point, the bleeding will stop.
And not so fortunately, all you can do till then is wait.
Wait till breathing is only merely excruciating...and then only painful.
Wait for the wounds to scab over. Wait for the scar tissue to come in. Wait for it all to eventually be just one more unevenly mended rent on the fabric of your existence.
And the irony is that it won't be the pain you'll resent.
It'll be the time - the time it'll take for that scar tissue to form; the time it'll take till you're you again.
When you aren't busy being utterly devastated, you'll find yourself mostly being really annoyed by that inconvenient little nugget of reality.
Because that shard is a voracious, persistent, many pointed little bitch and it won't let go of you easy.
A few weeks in, its bite will have dulled to the degree that you'll stop being constantly braced for impact. You'll manage to go about your day to day business doing a credible enough impression of a functional human adult.
But then, when you least expect it, someone somewhere will drop a word into the conversation - a word as random as Dremel, or as mundane as July. Or you'll see something as banal as AstroTurf, or as ubiquitous as sunlight. And suddenly that little bitch will shift and stick you with renewed vehemence.
Over time, though, that scar tissue will come in right and thick. The Shard will settle in and become a numbness within that remains largely inert. At the most sometimes, in maudlin moments, it might cause you a dull twinge - if you're the sentimental kind.
In time you'll forget it's there.
You'll forget that the numbness hosts a living wound.
And then someday in the future, you'll open your eyes and come to the sick realization that once more somehow, despite all your efforts to the contrary, you've landed on the same fucking high wire you swore you'd never so much as go near, let alone attempt to traverse.
And as the newly implanted remnant is in the process of ripping you a new one, as though that itself weren't punishment enough, every old forgotten shard inside of you will come screaming to life, as sharp and vociferous as the day it was born.
Gleefully, in unison, this syndicate will turn full circles under your skin to make sure to jab you with their pointiest sides. And as the voices in your head start up on their symphony of recriminations, mocking you mercilessly for the dumb fucking impulse that led you to make the same fucking mistake all over again, The Shards will join in to offer a command performance of their greatest hits - 'I Told You So', 'You Should Have Known Better.' & 'How Did You Not See This Coming?'
