TEXT BY MIDGE K. MANLAPIG
if i / fell apart / would you / care / or would / i be / another / corpse / by the / wayside / another / skull / on the / pile?
I wrote these words on a day when nothing turned out right and everything seemed to fall apart on me no matter how hard I tried to keep things together. Also, the loneliness, the alienation I felt had all but killed me by the time I managed to crawl into my room at the end of that blighted day.
It is difficult to be a person who has so much love to give and no one seems to want it. Regardless of what you do, your efforts remain unappreciated and, too often, found wanting or lacking.
A love unrequited is a poisonous one. It is a wound that festers deep within the soul, polluting heart and mind as it grows gangrenous; increasingly more painful over time until the poor, blighted lover falls apart at the seams or, alas, keels over dead – literally – from a broken heart.
And, unfortunately, it’s not like the object of one’s affections will attend the funeral or, come to think of it, even care as to what happens to you.
In my case, it’s something of a double-whammy: the person I love today is someone I loved a long time ago… a very long time ago. And this person pushed me away years ago under circumstances that were scarring to say the very least.
How do you tell someone that they inspire you to create your very best work? That they are the Muse who stokes the fires of creativity in heart and soul; that they make you feel incredibly alive and capable of doing just about anything and everything. Sometimes, you can say what you feel; sometimes, you are able to open up about it with no repercussions save the possibility that the other person thinks you’re their Muse. Most of the time, however, it just doesn’t work.
does it / matter / what happens / to me / when i / failed you; / when i / couldn't / deliver / the results / you wanted / in the / final stretch?
I’ve been called stupid. And foolish. And crazy. Just because of being in love with someone who won’t love me back no matter what I do. Not even if I bent over backwards to touch my nose to the soles of my feet. Not even if I went through hell and back on his behalf. It’s futile, really; but, for some strange, unfathomable reason, I love that person regardless of his shoddy treatment of me, regardless of the fact that he’s just using me, regardless of the fact that our friendship may mean nothing when he gets his way and hits the open road.
And it has been anything but easy: helping in any way that you can, pulling strings to practically do the impossible, lining up projects, baking every weekend, tiring yourself out by making it to events that – really – you’re too worn out for. But you do it for love; you do it with a dogged devotion; you do it from the goodness of your heart and expect nothing… except, perhaps, a little affection.
But, again, even that gets denied to you.
does it / matter / now that / you hate / me / loathe me / that you're / ashamed / of me / and i / know / you'd rather / i was / gone.
I have made no secret as to how I feel; but I don’t know my place, it seems. As a result, I’ve begun to shy away and turn away despite the heaviness in my heart. I was shunned once, after all; what assurance do I have that I won’t be pushed away yet again?
And my health has, literally, begun to suffer. My appetite is gone. Either I lose sleep or I don’t bother waking. Migraines punctuate my waking hours and pain is my closest companion. The mental and physical toll is beginning to tell – and I am not sure how much further I can go before I fall apart at the seams all because I had the bad grace to be besotted with such a mercurial, smart-mouthed, smart-arse man who seems to care for nothing but his music, nothing but his ambitions. No one but himself.
But I love him still. His welfare and success are what I pray for every night before I sleep. His priorities haunt my working-day. His ambitions, his cherished dreams, his fondest hopes… these are what I want to see coming into fruition. My own projects have been tossed to the back-burner because of this, and he has – believe it or not – scolded me for not taking care of myself.
But I don’t know if this concern is real or if it’s an act because the goddamned signals are so mixed. In fact, when I wrote the poem I’m quoting in its entirety throughout this text, he went online in the middle of the night to tell me off for unwarranted negativity and uncalled-for depression.
Sod it all; I wish the man would make up his bloody mind already.
so i'll / go / disappear / never to / return. // perhaps / this is / best / and we / would both / be free.
NOTE: Midge K. Manlapig is the author behind The Darker Side of Me (http://malishvish.wordpress.com) and her work has been published in The Philippine Daily Inquirer, MEGA Magazine, and Woman Today–GLITTER. She is currently an advertising creative in the Philippines, and is presently working on an anthology of poems and her novel, Café Anacardi, which will be on sale online by the end of 2015. Meanwhile, check out her blog, mostly about her kitchen exploits called Midge in the Kitchen at http://sybdive.wordpress.com.