An Empathy Yarn

 

1

You pull your empathy from the drawer,
And tug it over your head like an ill fitting sweater.
A sweater you knit for just such an occasion.
But the wool is itchy and distressing.
You move perversely.

I loathe your sweater.
And in turn I loathe you.
You make a mockery of my heart.
I ask for clemency.
You are impervious to my demands.

One day I will boil your sweater in scalding water.
And when you next pull it from the drawer,
It will strangle your vain attempts at compassion.
You cannot become something you are not.
A fool at play and nothing more.

But this is not a game.
Empathy is not a sweater to wear at your whim.
No!  Empathy is the yarn itself.
Yarn wound so tightly around the heart,
It constricts with each new affliction.

The yarn entwines itself through the body.
Strangling all logical thought from the brain.
Rupturing the circulatory system,
Spewing emotion from every artery.
An erratic puppet on a string.

Empathy is woven into the very fibre of my being.
It pulls tighter and tighter until I can no longer bear it.
And now as I unravel you with my words,
The yarn grips my lungs.
With every breath I struggle to accept your deficiency.

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Beautiful Broken Bits

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I admit it.
I’ve wanted your
Slick angled haircut
Flawless skin
Horned rimmed glasses
And wrap around pants.

I’ve wanted your
Perky breasts
Sculpted triceps
Tattooed back
And perfectly pierced nose.

I’ve wanted your
Beat-up station wagon
Mid-century house
Eccentric husband
And carefree life.

I’ve wanted your
Kindness
Grace
Fierceness
And tenacity.

I’ve wanted your
Creativity
Confidence
Depth
And desire.

I don’t want you.
I only want bits of you
To replace my unhappy bits.
And you want bits of me
To replace your unhappy bits.

Admit it.
We shout, proclaim, preach and teach.
But we don’t love us any more than before.
We are two-faced liars.
Selling our wares but never buying.

I will fight myself to love.
To love every ordinary, damaged, imperfect bit.
Every bit of me.
Every bit of you.
I will fight to love all the
Beautiful broken bits.

Words

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Photo by Juan Osborne

Words.
They torment me.
Anguish
Torture
Pain

There are so many words.
There is no right word.
Precise
Exact
True

They stare back at me.
I am at their mercy.
I think.
Analyze
Study
Examine

They are distorted.
I lose meaning.
They punish.
Me
Myself
I

I walk away.
They quietly follow.
They change.
Shift
Morph
Transform

I rush not to lose them.
They are not perfect.
Splendid
Sublime
Pure

I am forever one word away from beauty.