Moving, moving, go, go.
Do not stop.
Keep on keeping on.
Do not let go.
Do it, go!
Do it until you cannot anymore.
But I don't want to.
So, if can't means that I won't,
Then that is correct.
I will not sacrifice my energy
For the satisfaction of you.
Peace means more to me
Then to strive for death.
If it is money that you crave,
Take it all.
And your arguments, they,
Can be saved.
Take on a different meaning of spent.
Spend time on what inspires you.
FL
About the Creator
Faith Long
Faith Rashay Long is thy name. I am a full on creative. I have some things to share and hope that in sharing my experiences and ideas others would be inspired. Community and communication is very important to me.
Keep reading
More stories from Faith Long and writers in Poets and other communities.
Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanovaabout 5 hours ago in Poets
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.