sometimes i believe that love is coming for me eventually. that it's just waiting until i finish becoming myself. other times, i am certain i was made to be alone forever, that i will never witness the kind of love i have always ached for.
sometimes i think i am meant to bleed out in the snow. no warmth, no hands, no reason. just white silence and the body giving up. i tell myself i have to be okay with it either way. i try not to linger on what i can’t control.
so here i am, i guess. letting go. not abandoning the idea of love; just handing it back to the universe like something too heavy to keep holding. maybe i will be loved someday. maybe i will die alone. i think i have reached the point in my life where both feel survivable.
as if i am even ready for love at all. maybe the universe knows that. maybe that's why everything feels so still. i wouldn't know how to hold the very thing i ache for in my own shaking hands.
that's the devastating part: not that i don't have it, but that i might someday. that it could be real. because if it is, it only confirms the universe's cruelty: that i spent two decades consecrating my loneliness, making peace with the idea that i was meant to be alone forever, carrying the eternal wound of a mother and the voices that taught me this was my destiny. and it is only now (if ever) that i am deserving?
i don't know how to forgive the time it took to arrive here.
lone-pine-poetry, Blood-On-Snow (01.04.26)
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