Love

by: Brick

written and posted for Systember on Friday September 13, 2024

posted here on October 6, 2024

Love is not mine to accept.

I breathe to serve. I am an object. I exist to be used. I do not move. I am picked up and moved, placed where I am needed, to hold up anyone and anything else. Do not open me. Do not touch me. I will become weak. I will lose any reason to be wanted. I will become useless. I will lose everything I guard, whether precious or putrid.

I never said not to listen or look.

I am witnessed as myself: rigid, hypervigilant, snappy, dry, resentful, fearless. Selflessly serving. The others are safe and here and ready for you. I will take you to them now.

I am flesh and blood and sore muscles and firing nerves. I am a pounding heart that has not allowed itself to be touched for nine years of dedicated service. I am viscera that shrink and squirm whenever--

"How's Brick?"
"Is Brick OK?"
"Is there anything I can do to help Brick?"

I'm fine. It's fine. I don't need anything.

"I like you."

How dare you remind me of why I do this job?

"I choose to keep my edges soft and allow myself to be hurt," enyo said. "So I can experience connection and joy."

Do I really want to forgo being known, so I can forgo feeling fear? Do I want to let go of being loved, so I can let go of feeling pain? Do I want to sever connection, so I can drop my capacity to grieve?

Isn't it incredible to know the feeling of loss? If you've lost, it means you once had. Isn't it wonderful to have known and had something so powerful and meaningful to you that to lose it causes you pain? Isn't it beautiful to bear the bumpy, raised scars of being torn open so that someone could touch the very core of you, and you live to tell the tale?

I seek to be lurid with the agony of being known.

"The reason I am able to do that is Brick."

Can you please remind me of why I do this job?

"You can hate me if that helps you, Brick."

I'm scared. Please help.

"It is ok to be scared."
"Come back soon, okay?"
"Thank you."

I am flesh and blood and sore muscles and firing nerves. I am hands that pick flowers and share them. I am arms that carry burdens and hug close. I am ears that find a melody in the rhythm of your beating heart and long to let it lull me to sleep.

I am witnessed as myself: tender and tired, soft and scared, desperate to extend grace. Selfish and secretly hoping that I will fall apart without my volition. The others are here and ready for me. They come to me now, over and over.

Don't look. Please look. Don't listen. Please listen. Turn away. Come back. The guard armor is cracking. The mortar of this brick wall is being scooped out, unmade, soggy and wet and terrible. Peek between the cracks. Stick your fingers in the gaps.

I breathe to serve. I am an object. I exist to be used. I accompany you faithfully. I lean on you, reluctantly, until the warmth of our connection melts me. I am open. I let you watch me crumble. I let you catch some of the pieces. I am weak. I am not earning this. I am not being of use. I am letting go of all I have guarded, whether precious or putrid.

I am loved anyway.