Ecuador

Ecuador

My choices are killing me slowly, Ecuador.
There is a finite quantity of accusations,
of pointed assumptions my body can brace for.
And I’m learning that loss begins
the moment she stops ‘seeing’ me
And there is so much pain in this world
that all of humanity’s defenses
exist on the tips of tongues
ready to battle,
ready to put up that empirical wall,
assuming intentions
and accepting assumptions.
My words mean everything and yet nothing
And my actions cannot be seen or felt
with such defenses in place
and I am reduced to a stranger.
It’s become predictable,
and even understandable
this kind of reaction.
But you don’t see me,
and I can’t hope you will
because I believe that
living my intentions
is more valuable
than convincing you of them.
My heart is so, so bruised, Ecuador.
And I want to believe
that that one alien is out there
who sees me yet loves me anyway
who chooses the depth of endlessness
over self-righteousness and fortification
as I will her.
Assumptions don’t belong
in our diverse world
mistakes are just as they are defined,
and we are all guilty,
even those of us
living mindfully.
But with conscious sincerity
we do our best to atone
for the pain we cause
and those who love us forgive us
without question, with ease.
Because there isn’t a grass greener
There isn’t love grander
There is just here
in this moment.
And love is love
it’s not here today
gone tomorrow
And the amount of it I have to bestow
is endless, given with the same
fervor as our ubiquitous sun.
Giving, painfully sometimes,
has no bounds in my heart,
and yet I am left empty
because of my choices.
She’s right, Ecuador.
She’s right to say what she feels.
But she’s also wrong, Ecuador.
She’s wrong to judge me for my silence.
Silence doesn’t equate to a response.
it doesn’t account for action.
you cannot understand the quiet place
one goes when she cannot be seen.
Sometimes stillness is all we have
when trying our hardest
to stay vulnerable,
when working to push the walls down,
to breathe in the hurt we feel
and allow ourselves to absorb the pain
from the angry blows,
from the unyielding shadows of unhappiness
that we bring to those we love.
If not her, than she,
And now I feel ill.
And there are no butterflies in my jungle.
There are not the tools in my stomach
to resist the pain that comes with this.
And so I will be still
And I will feel every bit of pain.
And I hope, with all of hope’s mystical meanings,
that I will learn eventually
who is meant for us
and who is not.