He showed up at my door one day,
beaten, tattered and worn through.
I invited him in to stay a while,
to catch his breath, to regroup.
I mended his clothing,
I fed him wholesome food,
I showed him love...
The pain I saw in those eyes,
was deeper than the sea.
I wanted to help.
The seconds became minutes,
the minutes came hours,
the hours came days,
the days came months,
the months came years.
I am not sure how long he stayed in all.
At first it was awkward to have him there,
but soon it was my daily routine.
I would awaken to find Grief and Heartache waiting for me beside my bed,
I would put them on like clothes almost,
take him with me wherever I went.
I thought I was helping him,
but I wasn't.
What I did do
was open my heart to his pain,
and the flood was relentless.
I didn't take away his pain,
I certainly didn't fix it for him.
But I made him comfortable in front of my hearth daily as I warmed him,
and continued to feed and clothe him.
I told myself in time he would see the true sacrifice I made,
and he would love me
cherishing me for the fight I endured on his behalf.
I probably don't have to tell you that isn't how it worked at all.
Heartache and Grief they have discolored love,
it gives the appearance of real love
sometimes even feels like a faint memory of it,
but it isn't.
Daily I was drained by him,
daily I would submit to his ways,
daily I went about in a fog...
Until all at once the fog lifted,
I began to see him for what he truly was,
and the echoes of joy I had felt in his presence
they weren't real at all,
just traces of my broken dreams.
I realize I have wasted years
toiling in insanity,
doing the same thing repeatedly, expecting different results.
So I sent my visitor packing,
I sent him on his way.
I told him he had to leave,
even though my heart oddly longed for him to stay
In those years of confusion,
I lost sight of who I truly am.
Never having a chance to truly discover it before,
can I truly turn away the next visitor that knocks at my door?