I lay here, incapable of movement. I am broken. Everything about me is broken. I’ve been spent, used up, run dry. An empty soda can in the trash someone forgot could be recycled.
I don’t know when it happened. Hope had been surging in me, battling back the demons and my darkness. There are not new issues; there are no insurmountable problems, other than the great one, life. This sadistic obstacle course we’re all born into.
It’s gone though, the hope. It flickers a tiny light every once in a while. It coughs to let me know it’s still there somewhere, lost in the muck of my insides, not quite dead. Just like me, not quite.
Close enough though. Every part of me feels shut down, ruined and wasted. Physically, emotionally, sexually, spiritually. I want to just lay here until the grass grows around me, let moss cover my face and disappear into the earth. No sign he was ever here.
It’s just a flair up, I tell myself. A momentary reoccurrence of so many old pains. An old injury getting used to the winter chill.
I feel so old this Christmas.
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