When I loved

in response to The Fist by Derek Walcott

The pen does not want to meet the paper on this one. I do not want to write about this. Inside I feel filled with ice and antifreeze, fighting amongst themselves. Hard, compact, skate-able over the surface. Liquid, flow, carrying me where? I can write about the relationship this reminds me of. I can write about doubt of whether I have ever really loved anyone, the parts of me that know I have or felt I have, the parts of me in denial, hardened, shattered into fragments. I still feel the coldness inside. It’s shock. Residual shock, still there, echoing around the emptiness inside. And your face, eyes frothing, torturing screams, circling your prey with your arms extended, squeezing, choking, taking my life to satisfy your own need, feeding on me to quench your thirst of desperation. Nowhere to go to, nowhere to run or hide, you find me again and again. Footsteps echoing in dark basements, crouched behind discarded trunks, coffins in waiting. Behind you the shadows grow larger. My Dad’s face looms in my mind as your voice booms in my terrified ears. Bells of terror, ringing, ringing. Dangling ropes you might hang yourself from. Will you, won’t you? Can I have it on my conscience? Rescuing the one I need rescuing from. Again and again. The bells tolling, demanding from me more than I can give. I am not writing, stuck again. Limbo. My life in limbo pinned against a wall of fear, rage, betrayal. All I have is the energy to muster a glare, to look you in the face and put every ounce of my being, tighten every element and fibre of my being, into a lance of hatred, to pierce your darkness through, to fight for my life even if only in defiant death.

How different I was when I loved you. I look back now and I am not sure I can speak that word with your name in the same sentence. Because love is not about hiding from each other; love is not about disrespecting each other's feelings and making each other feel small and unimportant. Love is not about sex. But it was then, when I loved you. When I thought I loved you. What I was doing was following a pattern shown to me, I was recreating my parents relationship. You were the distant man, absent, unable to give up and open up. You were the man who played on his own terms, who called the shots, who made it clear I was not what you were looking for, our relationship was not going to last. But it was what I needed. I took what you dished out, crumb after crumb pretending my plate was full. Starving myself.

I often think about you, about the person I was, who I managed to leave behind. I wonder how different you are and if I'd be able to love parts of you still. Because you were doing what I asked you to do. I asked for little and little is what you gave.

When I loved you, I was a snail stuck in a broken shell, dragging myself from curb to flowerpot, aimlessly leaving a trail of destruction. Maybe I still do that in a way, without realising it.

Who are you now? Are you the father I couldn't connect with? Are you the absent husband? Have you paired yourself with a needy wife, who doesn't ask for anything and is constantly resentful of not having much? Or was it just me who fed that side of you? I guess I'll never know.