The Fool

The tarot doesn’t comfort me anymore. It tears me down. Every spread is a wound reopening, imbalance, lessons, endings, a connection built on need, not fate. No matter how many times I shuffle, the message bleeds through the deck like ink through thin paper. They are not the one. The cards say it without hesitation, without softness, without giving me room to breathe. They’re only here to show you your damage, they whisper, not to heal it. Not to stay. Not to love you in the way you keep starving for. And the worst part is how sharply that fits. How I can see them beside someone calmer, someone whole, someone not gnawing at the memory of touch like a starving dog hoping for scraps. Someone who doesn’t shake when loving. Someone who doesn’t collapse at small distances. Someone who isn’t drowning in emotions too heavy for anyone who wasn’t born to carry storms. The cards never flinch. They show me the imbalance, the way my energy consumes the room, the way theirs pulls away, hesitant, uneven, afraid. They show me futures where I am alone, because I loved too hard, or because they couldn’t love enough. And I keep asking, hoping the cards will finally lie, finally bend, finally give me one spread that doesn’t feel like a slow, deliberate goodbye. But they refuse to bend for me. They tear through my denial, through the fantasies I’ve built, through every reason I give myself to keep holding on. I am a pathetic fool.