Alone Again

I knew it would happen again. Only a matter of time, I guess. The rain drips from the gutters outside, sprinkling across the concrete patio. A familiar song played over and over for the last month. I sit by the window when it's played, transfixing on the silence between droplets, the silence that rings between my ears. If only he were here. If only I could feel him against me. 

They say it'll last 6-10 weeks, but who knows? With all that's happening, we all lie awake, wondering when the sun will come out of the clouds. I can't help but see him behind my eyes, the translucent imagery of a memory, projecting over and over again in my mind. His smell keeps me awake. The coldness of the empty side of the bed makes me restless. That guttural feeling of being alone again, abandoned in the beige colored walls of my home. 

I try and follow the recommended regimen: activity, productivity, interactivity. All of it fails to fill the hole, the gape that dwells in my gut. Only someone like me could understand, that waking hunger that haunts you every day and every moment. 

I took the pills. I'm sure they're just placebos at this point. I never feel any better, just tired. Tired of feeling this way, of the rain ricocheting against the roof above. Exhausted of listening to the same song played in a loop, the same voices screaming inside of my head. 

There's that tingle again, the itch across my left arm. A craving I can't scratch with my fingernails. I need something sharper to dig into the source, to make it all stop. I grip my arm tight, holding its shivers in place until I hear the phone ring again. 

It's him, his voice calms me down. I tell him what's happening, he does his best to soothe the pain. Using familiar talking points: "This is only temporary," he says, or "It'll get better, I promise." All of it fades like an ocean tide, crashing onto the shore and leaving before it can even begin to sink into the sand. 

I lie still at night, staring at the ceiling above me. Waiting for someone, anyone to come and rescue me. No one ever comes though, no one ever has. I'm alone again, as I always have been. 

Not because of my isolation, no. My loneliness perpetuates despite the warmness of another body near my own, it outlasts the hot breath of empty words. It's always there, no matter if there's a crowd to engulfs me. The vacuum of attention is the reason, maybe. No one ever really seems to care, I know that. I cry out for help over and over again, but the same responses always return. Not one word is spoken with uniqueness, with poignance. They all brush away the symptoms, the problem persists. 

Only I can bandage the wounds, they're all self-inflicted after all. The scars of guilt and self-loathing. I can't help it, waking up every day to the same reflection staring back at me. The same black hair, the same brown eyes, the same stretch marks, the same pale white skin. I hate what I see, I always have. I can't help but know there's nothing there, nothing worth salvaging. I tell myself to fight, to survive another day, another moment of being by myself, of being myself. Wasted breath, merely filling the hot air balloon that rises in my chest. 

My throat swells, tears trickle down my cheeks. His voice rings over and over in my head, the one man who dares to love me always and forever. My lips ache for his, my hands' welt at the idea of holding his again. He's gone, though. 

My mind wanders, a magnet for nightmares. It only attracts the ugliness, blocking out the radiating beauty that keeps my blood flowing, those few mnemonic visions that keep me warm in the coldness of solitary. 

I cut again. It's been a year and a half, the scars have healed on the outside. The ridges on the inside have only grown in that time, the roots taking hold farther and farther beneath me. 

I have to show the world. I have to show them the fractured glass that stabs and pricks at me night-in and night-out. I press the blade against my skin, cutting and cutting, deeper and deeper. The blood foaming out, coloring the edge in its maroon tint. It pours down, coloring the tile-floor beneath me. I can trace it, slithering down my forearm. I think I cut too deep, maybe I went too far this time. Perhaps I didn't go far enough; I just want it to stop, all of it to end in the one fleeting moment of ecstasy. Wait, I forgot the note. Oh well, there's nothing I could write to explain this anyway. It's madness, selfishly guided nonsense that only makes sense to those with the same shards of glass stuck in their head. 

It's fine. I'm fine. I don't matter anyway. The only one who cares left me behind. Why isn't he here? Where is he? Is he coming back? Why must I pretend as if temporary equates to permanence? I can't live like this, can I? He'll be back, I whisper to myself. I walk outside and lay in the grass, the cold water causes me to shiver. My clothes soak it all in, but the rain persists. 

It washes the signs of my sins away, but the scars remain. They have to know the pain, the facts buried within me, the hatred for the face that looks back at me. I don't want to feel like this anymore. I don't want to be me anymore, I don't want to hear the rain anymore. I just want him here, him beside me. He can kiss it all away, all of it can float away as it always has. I can survive another year, another day, another minute. 

But he's not here, only the rain keeps me company. It drips from the night sky as I lay in the grass, my arm sketched with scabs of yesterday. That itch remains there though, the tingle makes my finger twitch. The water only masks the tears, all of it camouflaging the pain that pours out of me, washing it all away.

But I know it's there, I know that I'm alone again.