the root of all (my) evil
No one knows how it felt
When that awful seed was planted,
Deep in the fertile soil of my heart
The constant pump of blood kept it alive,
its roots running like they had always been there
—like they were the very veins of my existence.
That root of all roots took my arms,
made them ache for fire,
held my hands, then let them go.
Left them on purpose, with the faintest linger
—gave me, then starved me forevermore.
How strange, I admit now, how I still seek it.
How I wait for those hands to disappear, only to take them again—
gripping like a vice, greedy, hungry,
desperate to hold them down.
Close to my heart, where all the awful things go.
How foolish to ever think it as hatred,
when my fists curled but never struck.
When my dreams were consumed by its familiar face,
dangling before me like a carrot on a stick,
When, in every waking moment,
I long to return to that false promise:
bittersweet, untrue, divine.
I feel it everywhere now,
gnawing at me, growing teeth.
It sinks into every weary bone, every aching muscle,
laughing at my misery, reveling in my pain.
I searched for its name in every book, in every sign.
As if knowing it could banish it to hell.
And like the crow above my head, an omen, I realize:
It had been love all along.
so it turns out this might just be me writing about possible BPD 🧍
