Tazia Machl, Staff Writer
my great grandmother told me to love hard, to love until i’m empty. i love and i love and i love and wither away from this love, and i die a selfless martyr (a fate i’m beginning to despise). i will die for you- i just wish you’d ask me to live, even if it’d cost you my touch.
i have so much to be grateful for this march! this wonderful, temperate march which propels me into a climax of orchestral fantasia! nonetheless i see a tragedy in spring; in the concept of rebirth itself. so much loss is required for growth, and i find myself grieving despite all that blooms around me.
and so i, burdened by double-vision and trapped in my lover’s peripherals, trudge on. i become wildly depressed by the ticking time bomb of disaster, of the next time i’m left, and of the next time i’m sold.
i was called ethereal recently- ethereal is not a compliment when all i wish is to belong to the world i was forced to flee. i watch from chipping stained glass windows as life moves, paralyzed by the fact that my life’s movement will one day move me away from you. when i got on my knees, begging for some sort of divine intervention, you showed up. it didn’t bother me that you were a false god: you’ve been the only one to ever truly see me.
and when you left and my altar crumbled, i laid hungover on the holy ground we once danced on, broken and burdened by your fading legacy.
either way, it is now march, and i pray to you again. after all, i’ve been cradled in the arms of mothers and martyrs: i must love until i’m empty.
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