Cut It Out/LIttle Habits We Keep in the Dark

I’ve noticed that as my hand begins to wear its imprint into the neck of the guitar, so the guitar begins to etch itself into the fingers of my left hand. I think it’s this way with many things—a time of novelty before an era of familiarity rides in on a tide of broken firsts. I think sometimes before we even know it, before we even begin to feel it, we’ve melted into someone else, become attached, rooted in them.

Though I have to concede it may not always be so subtle. I can still feel the pain of the metal strings cutting into delicate, sensitive flesh. I can still feel the soreness, the tenderness of a constant thrum against my skin, a raucous hum against my being. But the pain becomes a habit. It grows to be a habit you don’t mind, or don’t reject. It’s about getting there. Wherever there is. You take every ounce of pain, because you know once you’re there, nothing that came before matters. It’s a bittersweet sacrifice, and we simply hope there isn’t too far away.

I’m scared.

I guess you could say the point of all this humming and drumming is simple—I’m scared. All my life I’ve never felt safe. I have this great fear of abandonment that burns beneath my lungs, burns a smoking black hole into the pit of my stomach. It never leaves—sure, it smolders, it smokes, it flares—but it never goes out.

I wish it would.

I keep thinking maybe one day someone will put it out, cut it out, take it away…but they never do. The right person hasn’t come yet. Or well, I haven’t seen him yet. At the very least, I hope I can do this one thing right; at the very least, I hope I can see him when I find him.

Because I don’t think I can wait forever.

I don’t think I have until forever—no one gets forever, right? If Life is a promise, Death is a warning. A warning that your time runs out, your breath falls short, your body goes cold. I’m scared to feel my lips turn blue, my eyelids flutter shut—alone. I’m scared to move through life with the fear burning in the center of me, this pain blazing through the whole of me.

God, I’m so hypocritical.

Do you want to know the cause for this reflection? This sudden fear of dejection?

I think he could be the one to hold me. I think he could be the one to care. I think he could be the one to cut this smoldering parasite from my heart. I think…but I can’t know. The circle is vicious, vicious and cruel and cold and burning. I am defeated before I have begun. I sense the end, and I run. I sense the pain, and I run. I sense the pull of love, and I run. If I don’t care, I can’t be hurt. Against my best attempts to shatter the glass my mind keeps him as far from my heart as possible, though he’s beginning to seep through my veins anyway, and melt into the barely fluttering glass cowering within its cage of bone.

I can’t break this habit.

I can’t break who I’ve become.

But I’m trying.