I sent a poem to someone I love. He didn’t reply. I sent a message to ask if he read it. He snapped at me. He told me all he can see is streams of verbiage. What he meant to say was ‘All I can see is a whole lot of crap’. Whatever happened to grace? What happened to a simple thank you?
I ask my family to read my words. They never want to. They’re too young. Maybe one day they will appreciate what I have to say. My friends read what I write under the duress of ‘friendship’.
I love to write. I love to write to an audience. I have none. It makes me feel like giving up. It makes me feel my words mean nothing. My voice is not important. Not to him anyway. These are the times I should give up on hope.
“He’s going to hurt you” my daughter wisely predicted. Before I made the call. It’s not just him who inflicts pain. The world does it so well. It bruises. It pushes you over. It walks away with no remorse. With no understanding of what just happened.
All I have left is hope.
Shredded pieces of hope.