My heart is made of steel.
Not in that strong, impressive, Superman sort of way, but in a way in which it hangs so heavily in my chest it makes it difficult to gather my bearings; to stand up and rise when my subway stop approaches without a considerable amount of effort. Where I then begin to lumbar clumsily toward the opening doors.
Of course the old cliche of time heals all is tossed about on a semi-regular basis, yet the weight in my chest remains. The unbearable pressure on my internal organs remains, making it difficult to breath and squeezing the water stored in my ducts to release often and with passionate fervor.
Sure, time dulls all. I no longer have strangers on the train offering brand name Kleenex and words of encouragement, likely assuming I'm leaving the hospital housing the still warm corpse of a blood relative. Little do they know, they are with the corpse, seated in a crowded 1 train heading uptown. Crying for the death of hope and possibility and love.
Like a corpse; like I am trapped in a bad version of 'Weekend at Bernie's, although looking at that sentence I realize that may be a bit redundant. I feel like some sort of bloated shell forced to go through the motions and pretend to be a normal participant of society despite the fact that the confines of my cozy 1 bedroom apartment offers more solace than any fellow strap-hanger could ever.
Heartbreak is like a newborn, still calculated in months until toddling out the door with no hands, masticating ones own food, and ideally wiping ones own ass without enormous amounts of effort or the help of one more skilled in those particular departments.
13 months in and my step is still unsteady and I still feel like my peas and carrots should be strained into a more tolerable form, at least if I am expected to keep up. Keep up with the other toddlers fumbling around this world looking for meaning and love, neither of which I have yet to have been graced with.
Being looked upon with a strange mix of pity and disgust leaves one feeling dirty and impotent, unable to handle what, according to most is just another part of life, but to you has felt nothing like being alive and only like death with the unfortunate side effect of still needing to pay rent and, in turn present yourself to the world in a way that limits their discomfort and your embarrassment.
This can't be normal - feeling this way. How long is one expected to pretend and suffer? How long is one expected to wake up every day knowing it will be the same combination pain, irritation and overpriced coffee.
I get that everyone has had a broken heart- I am a fan of Motown and teeny-bopper pop, so I am fairly well versed in love, it's loss and the inevitable inspiration derived from said loss and instantly made into a hit single. However, without the Chi-lites to back me up with their melodies in bell bottomed pants and fedoras, all I feel is hollow.
All I feel is alone.
