She’s pathetic. Standing at the corner of the room, with her panic attacks and inability to breathe. She can feel me watching her — looking up to me with those sad round eyes — asking me to take over and to end her pain, but I can’t. Like a cobra shedding it’s skin, she has to go through the whole process to feel the change.
Yet here I am again, awake at one am, just staring at her.
I look at her with shame as she sobs and hope we didn’t share the same skin and could’ve been told apart. I do feel sorry for her at times- I’m not a horrible person. However, I understand that for me to survive, she has to get out all her emotions which — if left alone — will consume and sink us both. And I need to survive.
I need to survive because she still carries the past on her shoulders. She will never survive with all the guilt she stores up. She will never survive feeling like deserves what she’s going through. She is weak. Weak for her senses. Weak for her feelings. Weak for her dreams. Weak for her love. Weak for her loneliness. Weak for her sympathy. She defines weakness on every possible level. Emotional, physical, and psychological.
I am not being mean. She knows all that.
She has already started to make room for me, and has successfully let me take over a few times, but she needs to know that only I can make her stronger. The message I carry around is for both of us. I’ll help her grow. I know when to end the interference of others in her business. I know when to take something seriously and when to just not give a damn.
I know by heart how to be distant, how to be cold and how to turn my words into bullets.
She knows it’s time for her to go and as she falls asleep, our fingers lay ontop of one another as we merge into that same body she had exhausted.
She closes her eyes and, day by day, makes more space for me.
She is a martyr, for the future I shall build.