I wish I didn’t feel so deeply. I wish I could silence my keen intuition. Maybe then I wouldn’t suffer heartbreak without glaring evidence. Instead I’m left to trust my gut and wonder if, maybe, this time I’d gotten it wrong.

This has never been the case. One sees the inevitable.

There are those who forgo the banal approach to heartbreak. They parcel their affection and deceit in easy to digest morsels, label them ‘love’ and steadily, patiently anesthetize you so that, when the final death blow is dealt, you’re cauterized from your emotions and numb.

Alone and devoid of your lover’s guiding hand, you’re reduced to little more than a clitic: seemingly independent yet wholly without meaning unless affixed to another. You don’t know how or when it happened—and in that respect the cloak and dagger plan worked like a charm.

Humiliated and broken, you gather the debris scattered about your feet and gradually repair your life. You assure your loved ones that you’re okay, that the experience rarely crosses your mind, that you’ve moved on.

But alone with your thoughts, you give way to your insecurities—your sadness—your dashed hopes. And like a teary-eyed baby bird with its slender neck craned heavenward, you await another morsel from the unseen hand of anyone willing to put you out of your misery.

I wish I didn’t feel so deeply. I wish I could silence my keen intuition. Maybe then I wouldn’t suffer heartbreak without glaring evidence. Instead I’m left to trust my gut and wonder if, maybe, this time I’d gotten it wrong.

This has never been the case. One sees the inevitable.

© Tracy Ames 2011