I’ve found that everyone I meet, takes little pieces of me. Anyone that I’ve ever shared something with; a conversation, a smile, a cup of coffee, or even a glance. And then, in their absence, I’m burdened. And each ignited memory, there’s ache; like a tattered, amputated, limb.
Of course this means eventually there will be nothing left of me. That eventually I’ll fade into the background of the walls I’ve built around myself. I fight to keep people out out of fear of being left, which inevitably leaves me alone in the end. It’s a vicious cycle.
And as empty as this can be, I’ve come to terms with this fault. I would much rather be alone because I made myself that way, than to be alone because someone doesn’t want to be around, despite the emptiness it leaves me. A profound concept, I know. Ill-tempered, coward, and consuming, I also know.
I often wonder if these people, the ones that are stripping me clean, realize the gain in weight in their pockets when they walk away. These little pieces of me, I can’t imagine are very light. Tucked away, like words on a folded paper. Words that weigh down as if soaking wet.
Perhaps that’s all that I am, all that’s left of me; words. They can keep their feelings, keep their emotions. And me, I’ll keep these words. Each and every last one of them, to fill the foot prints leading to the door.