The Winding Story of My Heart

I want to convey that my heart is an open book, but it's not easy to read.

It's annotated and underlined.

There are great diversions and soliloquies.

I've written notebooks of possibilities; some of them very cozy, and I get quite attached to them.

Then the possibilities veered off course, and I didn't know how they would work out. So I put those notebooks down, but not without tears.

If I follow a story down to its hypothetical end and dislike the ending, Sometimes I'll dog-ear the page, hoping to rewrite it. Driving myself mad, because the conclusions never really change.

Sometimes I'm so wrapped up in the idea of someone that it's hard to let go.

Even if that idea is painful and complicated, especially if I thought that living that life was worth the complication.

It's hard to be written off, to become a footnote, an afterthought in someone else's story. No longer the love interest, no longer perused.

I've had stories end abruptly, stories that I thought were solid.

I've been confronted by the most confusing accusations of who I was and what I've done.

Where I couldn't even interject my truth or be believed; the ending of some stories has hurt me so, so deeply.

I sometimes fall prey to diversions, diversions that keep me confused and controlled, lost and not myself.

I can love so deeply and hurt deeply as well.

Yet, I am also able to believe in others and overcome deep pain.

Because to love is beautiful, to lose is painful, but the possibility always exists of a beautiful, great love story.

One that I'm still trying to write.