farewell drumbeat

There is a drumbeat. Of course there is a drumbeat. My heart is faster. It always was around you.

There is one rational thought. Of course there is one rational thought.

What are you doing!

It screams at me with a conviction I didn’t known to come from myself.

It hits me hard, like the drumbeat.

“I have to, whatever it takes.”

That’s what I say to myself.

That’s what I do.

You start the conversation. Of course you start the conversation. You always did. Control. It was yours. Always yours.

Not now.

You are the same. Always the same. Caring, evanescently sweet.

I answer the message. I throw the phone away. Cover my face with my hands. Pull my knees up to my chest.

Whisper, I’m sorry, consistently against my palms.

“It’s okay,” I murmur. “At least you can’t hear his voice.”

Because your voice determines everything. Without your voice, I can hide.

Your voice is uncontrollably conflicted. Your voice echoes the same self-assurance I search for within myself. Your voice is the honesty that could break my finished persuasion. 

Your next quip is questioning. You’ve never been pinned down by me like this. I hate it. I hate it so much. I wasn’t ever supposed to be the one who was in charge. That’s you. Control. It’s yours. Always yours.

And then, like a wave, we’re in. I can’t go back, can’t change my mind. Around me is the drumbeat. That bloody drumbeat.

I am silent in my numb body.

I picture you. You’re perfect and you’re not completely sure about it, but I’d tell you every day if I could. I see your capable hands. One pushes the shock of hair that’s always on your forehead back. The other taps your knee. Drumbeats are everywhere you are. Your eyes are acknowledging. I don’t know if I can picture you in distress. I don’t know what that looks like. I withhold myself from imagining it.

Your answer is saccharine. You are enervated and serious.

I look at my previous words. “Is that okay?”

And you. Oh, you. You and your darling three-letter-word that confirms everything.

You are perfect. So hurtfully perfect. You only answered that way because you like me. To you, I’m that same delicate girl who needs gentle sugarcoating when she’s upset around you. Thank you. I hate that your answer portrays your care. It makes me feel bad. Am I bad? That isn’t the point, is it.

It hasn’t sunk in yet. The last message is mine. A blast of relief. I wonder how you took that. Did you think I was relieved to leave? Did you know that I hated myself for what I did?

Did you want to know why?

I close my eyes whispering sorry.

Hurting you is worth unspeakable punishment. But did I hurt you? Are you actually okay? Do you agree?

I did this for us both, you know. Not us both together. Us both separately.

I don’t know if I’ll wake crying.

The drumbeat fades.

Barely anything more to grasp onto.

I should feel more. Relieved maybe. Upset, to say the least.

But nothing.

I’m numb.

Perhaps indifferent.

Unchanged, possibly.

Did I really just throw our preciously tainted three years away? Will you wait another three for me?

Conviction comes with a price.

The price is assurance.

And assurance is rare in situations such as these.

I listen for the drumbeat, but it is gone.

Of course it has gone.