Two Steps Forward; One Step Back

Me: I'm not gonna get into Mystic Messenger. It's just not happening

Me: ...

Me: *downloads game*

I’ve got a threadbare heart, and I can’t sew.

For all it’s been through, I’ve got so little to show.

My leaps to euphoria and falls back into pessimism,

Pumping blood through my veins to say “you’re alive”,

Have worn down the strings that hold all of me –

All the pieces of me – all together, as one complete being.

It’s just patchwork now – something old, something new,

So much borrowed, and the many things I outgrew.

There’s no whitespace left. No clean slates to be found.

There’s just layers, layers, layers... a past, accumulated.

It’s been tugged at, strings fraying, snapping loose,

And parts have been torn away – replaced hastily,

The messy substitution at home in the compilation.

So I hide it away, wrapped carefully in red silk,

A fragile attempt to conceal the mismatched pieces below,

Worn down odds and ends clinging desperately together.

How easy it is to forget the beauty of a threadbare heart.

The one that is used so much, so often, and so fully,

That it can never be mended quickly enough.

While there is pain to be found in the endings,

Abrupt as the snapping of those once-strong ties,

Each loss is a new home for a new piece,

The latest scrap to enter the fray of my clumsy,

Inelegant, uncouth, yet authentic heart pastiche.

So while I still cannot sew – much less fast enough,

Or well enough to keep up with the wear

That results as proof that I am using it –

My heart, though worn down from use

(Preferable to being untouched, I believe)

In a world where most would rather drown in another’s lips,

I’m the odd one out for wanting to drown instead in their poetry,

Expressed not by their feeble attempts to close a gaping distance,

Left between not just gaping mouths (waiting) or between hearts,

But by the melody (or perhaps harmony) played by each part of them,

Each part of their mind, body, and soul, trying to learn their own place,

Seeking their individuality, all the while seeking the crux of cohesion.

I’d rather spend a night with a tangled mind, than tangled sheets,

Where the language used is that of another seeking understanding,

Not that of things-done-in-the-dark-of-the-night-alone-together.

I’m not looking for a connection found only between joined hands,

But between two paths in life walking, tenaciously, the same road.

I’d much prefer to die “alone” than die to “connections” while living,

Because at least that way I only “die” once, not many times over.

While I hate being unremembered, is it better than the alternative;

Being relivable through memories so shallow they’re only skin-deep.

That’s why I hope you’ll forgive me (or perhaps it’s better not to –

Then you’ll not miss me) for rejecting a one-time “contract” -

As that’s the best way I can explain your definition of love –

For a “relationship”, of course, bound by your terms,

With very little connection, association, or involvement –

Unless, of course, those tangled bedsheets are involved,

In which case you’re willing but only for so long.

In a world that thrives on “relationships” based in the night,