IV: Can I Make It Snow on the Inside of My Heart?

My bones are heavy and my lips are dry. Even the feeling of my hair falling over my ears makes me want to scream; it is too heavy, too comforting, too nostalgic. I dislike nostalgia. Even the feeling of my hair reminds me of life and how everything was when we were alive.

I mean properly alive. I count myself as dead. Listen. The gentle lapse of the sun on the ground makes no sound and I cannot hear it. The soft slur of the wind under the ocean makes no sound and I cannot hear it. The racing rumble of the rattle of the rain in the Sahara makes no sound and I cannot hear it. I cannot hear anything. I cannot see anything. I cannot hurt anything else.

I have hurt you before, sweet dear. I have and I know I have. My incontrollable violent mood swings have hurt you. I was unresponsive towards you. Too calm on the outside. I was a shell. Empty and void of all feelings of affection towards you. When you walked off and talked for hours with other people, I sat staring and did not care. Shells have no emotions. Of course, the tiny bit of me that did care was withering and dying as I saw the only person in the world I loved talking to people that I hated. But, as a shell, I remained mute and deadpanned.

You drifted. You drifted away. Too far away for me to pull you back. I pretended to not care, but, again, I did. In my good moods, I tried to make amends, to build bridges and to fasten an emotional rope around you in order to pull you back into my arms. But whenever I touched you, I only felt the shudder than ran through your conscious, nothing else. I felt ecstatic and electric, but you shuddered. I felt it, my dear. Do not lie. I have lied in my past, but never lie to me. It will only hurt me more.

Why should you care if I am hurting? Nobody cares. I care for my emotions, my fragility so rattled it could crash and break at any moment. My shell has thinned. Emotional erosion has rubbed away at me for so long. My outer shell has become dull and colourless and my inside is more exposed than ever. A portrait of you I kept in my head has not changed. Or, at least, I thought it had not changed. Apparently, the colours have run and the beautiful face I used to envisage has been replaced by a face that could easily represent the Devil’s.

I don’t want to hate you, but I find myself doing so. A young couple could break up, a mutual agreement making most of the decision, then the pair would find themselves wondering what they thought about the other person. The more submissive would undoubtedly keep their feelings on the outside, like a force field, a melancholy expression plastered onto their face. Some people might call it attention seeking. But me? I believe that a submissive will think. A submissive will think so much, they will be unable to keep the sadness to themselves.

A dominant will do it the other way. They will keep their feelings inside, a spring in their step and a grin on their face. They will appear to not care about their breakup. They may be a little bit more sensitive towards their ex-other-half, or they may not be. They might stay single for a couple of days, then the submissive’s heart would be wrenched even more as they saw their ex-other-half with their arms around someone else. Two days after their breakup.

Of course, I am taking this from my own experiences. It is what you did to me, as you were the dominant. You had me at every beck and call. Not anymore, sweetheart. Not anymore. I am a free person. A free spirit. Free in every sense of the word. Free from the restraints that hold me back. Breathing. Life. Sadness. Joy. Tears. Heartbeats. I do not need to feel them anymore.

I am free and the only one who will get their arms around me will be the waves. The waves will never leave me. The waves will only hug and hug tighter as I plunge downwards. You knew. You knew I wanted, when I died, to be thrown in the sea. From an early age, I wanted that. Twisted dreams, maybe. But the ocean is my friend. The ocean is my companion. The ocean is my rock.

Pick me up.

Take me there.

Drop me down.

Don’t stay to watch as I sink. You cannot. You chose the cold, grey sod over the aquamarine waters. You will feed the worms while I will feed the living fossils ten miles down. You will rot underground while I will lie preserved forever on the seabed.

And I intend to.

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