I Wait for the Rain

Has anyone reading this ever felt self-loathing? A few years ago I bathed in that shit.

I am someone who still writes about pain.

I cannot truly remember what heartbreak tastes like.

It used to sit on the tip of my tongue. In the midst of every breath I took.

I barely showered so it would not wash away.

I was such a masochist that I made it my lover when no one else wanted to stay.

I was convinced I deserved to feel this way to understand redemption. That being marginalized by my own doing and immersing myself in suffering would bring me freedom one day.

The years changed me. A lot. I remember one night it was pouring rain. And all I could think was that the sound of it hitting the ground would never compare to the sound of my heartbeat.

This is how I held on. I still wait for the rain.

As pathetic as I felt, that moment I was flooded with dreams of my happiness. For the first time in a while, I lay in bed mourning all the things I loved and lost.

I became enamored by the way I used to love myself. And I finally realized that my self-deprecation had run its course.

I am different now. Maybe I am different in better ways. But I am also not the same in the ways that made me love myself.

I vividly recall the day I realized that I had exhausted all means of salvaging something I once held so dear.

Certain times of the year still feel so difficult. But I am resilient.

Where I once felt so emotionally attached to my joy, I sometimes feel sadness. At feeling like it is possible to love and loathe myself in equal measure.

Today I bear witness.

My life is much fuller. Richer. Brighter.

Without depression controlling every aspect of it.

But I know it will be back again someday. So I wait for the rain.

I am most afraid of the possibility that self-love can be fleeting. All I can do is hold on to the greatest parts of myself. And promise to love myself better.

Myra Rosa

As I trek these dirty New York City streets, I pick up pieces of my existence. I am a Puerto Rican activist from The Bronx. I am a conduit for love and I trust life. I write poetry for many reasons. To make sense of humanity. And maintain my sanity. To understand the feelings in my veins. And the thoughts inside my brain. But most of all, because it will perhaps resonate with souls as broken as I once was. Take all the wisdom that surrounds you and absorb it. Let it be what you profess.

Opening Photo courtesy of Rachel Harris.
Author Photo courtesy of author.

Comments are closed.

Create a website or blog at WordPress.com

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: