I’m hurt. A woman I felt for incredibly deeply left me and all I’m feeling is hurt.

The Urge makes its presence known, saying, “You always end up hurt. You’re on the receiving end.”

“Yeah, but…”

“You get derailed. That fragile little heart of yours laid bare. I think you might enjoy this you sick fuck. Do you like being a sad little puppy?”

My eyes sink. Maybe it’s right.

“I don’t like being this way,” I say. “I wish I didn’t worry so deeply about love. I wish I was colder.”

“I wish I let the hurt close me off.”

The Urge sits still. Its disembodied gaze hard to read.

Then, the Self speaks up.

“But you didn’t have a choice, did you?”

“No,” I say, despondent.

My heart beats heavily, a sharp pain comes, too.

“I love to my own detriment though. When will it be too much?”

The Self quickly answers, “Never, you will ALWAYS be like this. Your tenderness is your strength. Your will to go on like this is endless.”

With that, the Self slinks back to its corner. The heart and the ego paying close attention.

“I feel defeated,” I say. “At my highest, I feel untouchable, but at my lowest… well, you’ve seen me.”

The Heart takes me into its arms.

“That’s your lot. Not many have space like you do,” it says.

The Ego stares forward, meeting no gaze. The Urge is practically circling me like a shark.

The Heart continues to hold me, and I feel my emotions come to a boil. I start to cry.

“You have so much more love to give; you’ll be okay,” the Heart says. “This is just a bump in the roa-”

“ENOUGH,” the Ego cuts in. “Can’t you see how much pain she’s in? What about her? Why is it always about how quickly she can heal? How much she can give?”

The Self looks sheepish, and the Urge perks up, optimistic.

“It’s time for her to be selfish,” the Ego demands.

“Finally, one of you has some sense,” the Urge, back in control, says. “All that love nonsense, all that sharing space and joy? We all know it’s not worth this pain.”

The Urge almost seems to be gaining a corporeal form.

It’s growing stronger. I almost feel like I’m shrinking in response.

The Ego is quiet. The Self too. The only one with any spirit is the Heart.

“Do you like it here?” the Heart asks the room.

This catches the attention of everyone, including the Urge.

“I said, do you like it here?”

Quiet mutterings from the others. I just stare, curious where this is going to go.

“She, this place we all so comfortably live in, is the way she is not out of cowardice or fear. She is the way she is because of her strength.

The Heart begins to radiate.

“Her love is her strength, her open heart so laid bare? Brave.”

“To have gone through everything she has and with us four knocking around her skull and still maintaining as much joy, as much sensitivity that she does? That’s why I stay.”

The Urge starts shrinking. It knows it’s losing the argument. The Ego feels satisfied, the Self still unsure.

“I so badly want for you to find the love you so deeply crave and deserve,” the Heart says, kissing me on the forehead. “Until then, continue to foster yourself. Love yourself just as hard or harder than you want to be loved.”

With that, she vanishes. Then the Ego, the Urge, then finally the Self, wounded but looking more perked up than moments before.

The room feels lonely and dark. Clothes strewn about the room. I grab an oversized tee from the floor, throw it on, and let out a long sigh. I climb into bed.

I feel better after all this. The Heart stood bold. But I know that when I sleep tonight the woman that started this will still be in my dreams.

The lights of cargo ships flickering in the distance, and only the brightest stars were visible amongst the light pollution.

I dig my toes into the sand, nesting like the turtles that crawled from the beach just a month prior. The barriers erected to protect their homes are still set up every 20 or so yards. The simplicity of their lives, either escaping to sea or cut short by a brutal horde of waiting predators feels almost cathartic.

I was supposed to meet someone else here, or he was supposed to meet me here. Two empty bottles of Pinot Noir sitting next to me dulling that memory. The memory of the man.

The wind whispering in my ear, reminding me of my past lovers, their tongues tickling my neck, the moisture culminating on my skin reminding me of their touch, the sweat we made together.

None of them amounted to much, lost in my whirlwind, lost in my passion, eventually losing themselves altogether.

I barely remember half of their names, their syllables just twinkle off my tongue, but I hope they were able to pick up their lives.

Driven from my rumination by a car horn screeching. A drunk slamming his hands on the hood.

Even though it’s the middle of the night, the streets are alive and the sidewalks busy. Snowbirds are just starting to make their way to town and this is one of the busiest beaches in the county.

Amongst the late-night crowds, I keep thinking I see the man. His soft eyes and forgiving smile, but my mind is playing tricks on me. I deserve this I think. The ache of waiting, of ghosts. The pain of love growing strained if it still exists at all.

I look back at the Atlantic, hoping the sea consumes me whole.