SandFlea Production

I’m trapped, but please don’t free me,
I beg you to release the chains,
But’ll hate you if you let them drop,
It’s a prison of my own making,
One that I don’t want to leave

The moment I feel pain, I wash it away,
Sorrow and concern fade into the day,
Not a moment to myself,
I pull bottled distraction off of the shelf

I hate how I feel, avoiding what’s real,
Running and ignoring is the only way to deal,
Blue light rots my eyes,
Dastardly bright, forming what I despise,

Liquid lies, formed inside,
Breaking ties, killing pride,
Friends of mine, lost in stride,

If only there were to be a way out,
An off button to shut it all down,
I know there is, my mind shouts,
But I’d do anything not to have the shame around

You see, it’s not a prison, there are no guards,
There are no chains or records marred,
It’s the life I built,
Brick by brick,

It’s the parts I’ve killed,
Hit by hit,

There is no freedom from the sun,
Beams, so fast that you can’t run,

It will always chase you down,
Ruthless rays, you will be found,

Whatever you lift the highest,
Will always shine the brightest,
Whether darkness or light,
It’ll shine across your life

It becomes not a prison, but your world,
The pitch of your idols unfurled,
Worshipping your captor,
Wishing and waiting for final rapture

In the twenty-three years I have lived,
I have seen what pain can do to a man.
I have seen what jealousy can destroy,
what betrayal can steal,
and what silence can say
when words are no longer enough.
I have watched people promise forever
with the same mouths
they would later use to say goodbye.
I have seen hands that once held each other tenderly
become strangers,
and hearts that once beat in unison
learn to survive at different rhythms.
I have seen love.
Or perhaps, I have only seen
what people are willing to call love.
Because the older I grow,
the less certain I become
that I understand this thing at all.
And today,
I want to talk about it.

Not the love they put in songs,
nor the kind they sell in movies,
where two people find each other,
overcome a few obstacles,
and live happily ever after.
I want to talk about the love that stays
long after happiness has left.
The love that sits beside you in silence
while your mind begs you to walk away.
The love that knows every reason to leave
yet searches desperately for one reason to stay.
I want to talk about the love
that makes a fool of an intelligent man,
that turns certainty into questions,
strength into vulnerability,
and pride into a prayer whispered
to a God who may already know the answer.
Because somewhere along the way,
we have made love too beautiful to be understood.
We have dressed it in flowers,
perfumed it with promises,
and convinced ourselves
that if it hurts, it must be meaningful;
if it lasts, it must be true;
and if we cannot let go,
then perhaps we were never meant to.
But I have begun to wonder


whether our hearts are wiser than we think
or simply better at lying to us.
They say love is a feeling.
But feelings change.
The sun rises and sets.
Seasons abandon the trees they once adorned.
The same sky that welcomes the morning
eventually swallows the light.
And if love were merely a feeling,
what would remain when the feeling disappeared?
Perhaps love is a decision.
Perhaps it is sacrifice.
Perhaps it is the quiet determination
to choose another person
even on the days when choosing them
costs you something.
But even that explanation feels incomplete.
Because how do you explain the person
who has hurt you repeatedly,
yet whose happiness still matters to you?
How do you explain the anger
that rises in your chest
when you remember what they did,
followed by the unbearable tenderness

I’m beginning to think
You told me a softer version
Of what she was.

You said it wasn’t special.
That you appreciated her,
But that was all.
That you didn’t love her,
That she gave you the ick,
That you stayed because you were lonely,
Or afraid of what she might say.

But then I found your words.

And your poems
Tell a different story.

A year together.
Beautiful things said about her.
Intimate things.
Your “pajarita.”

A love that sounded
Like it was teaching you
How to love again.
A relationship that sounded
Like it meant something. 

And now I don’t know
Which version of you to believe.

Maybe you did end it
Because you knew she wasn’t the one.

Maybe your feelings for me 
Were as strong as you say,
Even while you were with her.

But I don’t think
You were as honest with me
About what she meant to you
As you could have been.

And that’s what hurts.

Not that you had a past.

Not even that you loved her.

It’s that you let me believe
there was almost nothing to mourn.

You asked me to help choose
The poems you’d read at your workshop, 
And I didn’t even know
I was helping you choose
Words you’d once written for her.

I didn’t even know,
Because you told me you never
Wrote for her. 
That you only lied and told her 
Some poems were about her
Because you never truly loved her. 

It never crossed my mind 
That I might be helping you choose 
Words that belonged to her. 

I gave you my opinion.
Told you my favorite ones,
For the world to hear. 

And somewhere,
She may have seen them
And known exactly what they were.

I feel stupid.

Then you reached out to her
For “closure,”
And I was left with only
The version of that conversation
You told me.

You thanked her
For making you a better man.
For being part of your family.
For everything you shared.

And now that I know
It was more meaningful
Than you let me believe,
I can’t help wondering
What else was said.

Because I don’t know. 

What else have I been told
Only halfway?
My mind keeps filling
The spaces you left blank. 

You made me feel
Like it had always been me.

Like what you felt for me
Was so strong. 
That everything before me,
Barely mattered.

But maybe it wasn’t that simple.

Maybe she was special.
Maybe you were actually in love with her.

I don’t know.

And that’s the part
That is breaking me,
Not knowing what was real.
Because I can accept your past.
I can accept that you loved someone
Before you loved me.
What I don’t know how to accept
Is feeling like you rewrote that past
So I could feel like
I was always the one.

And now I am left
Standing between your words
And your poems,
Trying to figure out
Which one is telling me the truth.
Trying to figure out 
Which parts of your past are finished
And which parts are still alive inside of you. 

You love me.
I believe that.

I just wish
You had trusted me enough
To tell me the truth
About what came before me. 
I would rather
Have loved you
Knowing she mattered
Than love you now
Wondering what else
You made smaller
Just so I wouldn’t be hurt.