Bulletproof Vest
Sitting in isolation, contemplation, and mental abberation, I am alone. Love shows me no mercy and when I have loved, I have lost. Disappointing others and myself, I ask myself daily "what’s wrong with me?" That question is partly my mother talking as she holds me to such a high standard. High. It’s what I was today and it’s what I want to be on every lonely day. And every day is lonely in the life I lead. To be high every day would be to live as a mannequin would. Already too numb to feel, life as a mannequin would be no different than my day to day struggle with depression. This fight wounds me where others cannot see and so they cannot know the thoughts that pervade my mind. As I slip into this bath, I submerge myself in the warmth I have longed for from others. Others so wrapped in themselves that they could care less about hurting anyone else. Led on more than a sheep in a herd, my love life has been one of misery. My love is unrequisited and I am left alone. Just as life gives me hope and things go well, my happiness is crushed by the love and it’s consequential depression. With responsibility and expectations upon me, I find an outlet in the written word. I write on this plane separate from my own where none can see. I care so much for others, especially in the context and blindness of love, that I interpret a few meager words from them as love being reciprocated. I am now bitter and this world has been relentless in breaking me. I am not afraid of love, no, but the pain it brings when it is lost and it is always lost. As for love itself, I commit and throw myself into it entirely and so is my lot in life as I put myself in the line of fire and wonder why I get shot. I rip the bulletproof vest from myself for them and they fire away. All the while, their vests tight and secure. This detail is one withheld from me. Blood gushing, I lie on the ground in depression and loneliness trying to stop the bleeding. The girl walks away and it is only then I realize she was behind the trigger. Left to fill my own wounds and close them myself, I lie in agony with my rough repairs of a broken heart. The pain is great and my patching is poor as I can’t get far in closing my wounds alone. I try my best but on dark nights such as this, the wounds open again and blood seeps out to soak the bandages and leave me in a pool once again. A new wound from a girl named Kiki, how ironic to meet her at Top Shot weekend. Perhaps one day, someone will be willing to take bullets for me too.
