I don't like posting about my hurt feelings on social media. The closest I get is putting a sarcastic spin on whatever is happening in my life, but even that sometimes feels too passive-aggressive for my taste. Honestly, I don't even like talking about my hurt feelings. I went to school in a masculine town; feelings are for the weak, and hurt feelings are to be disregarded lest you appear to have some kind of the dreaded feminine qualities that I was taught were inferior. While I now see how bullshit all that is, I still haven't been able to get over the hurdle of talking to men about how they hurt me, so I bottle that shit up until I find one of the three people I actually trust not to judge me about these kinds of things and let it all out.
But that was before I had an anonymous blog to let loose all these feelings! Now I can have all the relief of venting my feelings without being that passive aggressive person who posts something on Facebook hoping the person they're writing about sees it and is affected. Because so and so doesn't know where this blog is and there's no chance of him seeing this. It's a relief.
Here goes: I've told ya'll about how I don't like sharing my work with people. The only reason I do it here is because you'll never know who I am, and the only reason I gave a poem to my dad is because he's been asking for years and I don't want him to die without reading something of mine. I do not show people my work.
Except I did. A friend of mine asked, and he's shared something with me so I decided to share something with him. You have no idea how terrifying that moment was for me, sending off something that revealed some very personal feelings, but it was all rewarded when he wrote back and told me how much he liked it and wanted to read more--oh wait. No. That's not what happened. You know what did happen? HE FUCKING DISAPPEARED.
Yup, he ghosted on me. I didn't hear from him for over a week. A goddamned week. And you know what he did finally message me about today? The Game of Thrones finale. A fucking TV show. And I didn't realize how upset his silence made me until he broke it. There's no explanation he can give that doesn't hurt. In my mind it was either so bad or he got freaked out so he didn't have anything to say, or he just didn't care enough to acknowledge what I'd done.
That hurts me. I've been feeling that knot in your chest when you're fighting off tears ever since I saw that message.
So I wrote a poem about it. About what must have gone through his head and how he failed me. Of course I can't guarantee my point of view is actually what went down. There might be a reasonable explanation, but right now I'm not looking for the reasonable explanation. I'm angry, I'm venting, and I just want to let loose this stupid, stubborn pain I've been sitting on all day.
I showed him my work and he disappeared.
It was a group of four paragraphs written out,
Twisted and mangled until I had a work of art.
It was a display of my feelings and my wounds
and the confusion that comes with life
and I was so scared to give it light.
fresh eyes were the worst of my fears.
They can only confirm the inadequacy
in my poetic flounders.
And here they are confirmed.
What other reason is there,
to see a person's soul in their work
and fade into the background?
What other reason but a loss of words and a loss of courage.
I call that cowardice,
and the sting of disappointment quickly follows.
But it is not my work that reached high and failed;
"Only" rings false for I am failing too.
True courage is putting thoughts into words
that hurl through the air
like the bullets they are.
A brave soul reveals pain,
reveals the slashes made to heart and pride
and lets no injuries let lie
in attempts to hide the truth of hurt feelings.
I am not a brave soul.
I am not strong.
I am not what I thought I was.
And neither is he.