Sometimes when we fold ourselves at night, we pretend to be tiny origami cranes. Delicate, unfeeling, simple.
Sometimes when the dark finally sets in and shadows come to play, we pretend they’re our drunk dreams warding off the bad ones.
Sometimes when our eyes have to be pried open in the dimly lit room and the ache sits so deep in the morning air, we pretend it’s Christmas morning just to get out of bed. We’ve got a life to live, let that be our gift.
There are days our heads feel so heavy and our chests feel like caskets. There are days our skin feels ragged and our muscles feel sore. There are days feeling our heartbeats is the scariest thing in the world and each breath feels like razors scrapping on our every soft surface.
But our legs still carry us and our necks still hold our heads. We manage to survive another damn day because that’s what we do: we survive.
When I look around to see all of the survivors, the warriors, the ones who made it, I see lights that refused to dim. I see hearts that didn’t get the best of us and I see bravery in the exhaustion.
And I say congratulations.
I don’t drink much. I can remember the last time I was drunk,
and that was months ago. One, maybe two. Then I’m done.
Being drunk only amplifies whatever mood my heart is in.
But one or two, and that softens it. The gray sadness
becomes a little more dull, a little more bearable.
Tonight I’m drinking water and it occurs to me;
I want a drink.
I kissed you, when every word I could think of was just too damn difficult to say. Words have never been easy but, dammit, I could kiss you hard enough to show everything through that one action. Don’t you dare tell me otherwise.
My breath would catch in my throat and my mouth would go dry. My heart would beat like a jackhammer and I would feel every flood of emotion in my blood. And I could still show it in every kiss.
Fingertips trailing on your skin, did you know I spelled out every word I felt over and over until it didn’t make sense?
I won’t talk about the maybe’s. I won’t talk about the could-have-been’s, what-if’s, and I-wonder’s.
But I can still recite the love that made up every cell from the moment I fell for you. It could still pour out of my mouth like I was never broken. They might not be pieced back together for you, but they could be created again. Under new management, anyway.
And I will close my eyes and tilt my head to the skies and pray for a new love in my pulse. My tongue will twist in my mouth until it can finally make the phrase anew: I love you.
Every heartbeat I feel is just a ticking clock counting down until my world explodes in new color that makes my blood boil and my mind soothe. Something so conflicting and calming and chaotic that it will take my breath away until all I can gasp for is the air from that connection.
Da Duh. Da Duh. Da Duh.
The clock is just counting down.
I can’t get it out of my head; everything I’ve ever said or done like it’s one big ink stain on my reality. Like I’m the only reason why there are fall backs and hindrances.
I swear I’m not a huge fuck-up but I see everything pointing back to me and even while I know it’s false that’s the only thing that sounds right. My head can shake in refusal and nonacceptance but it still presses further and further into my being like once it makes its way through, that’s it. It’s written in stone. It’s truth.
Everyone tries to twist my words and my actions, they try to twist what kind of person I am to fit their lives. Of course then when I can’t find it in me to let anyone in, it’s my fault and somehow I’m still the one fucked up.
These bonds people place on my wrists to theirs feel brittle while they look like diamond to everyone else. One jerk in the other direction and we’re both let free, but somehow they don’t see that.
I’m not the bad guy. But I’m also not the hero.
I wish everyone would understand that I am not their hero.
I am not a hero.
I haven’t been myself lately, kind of like trying to copy who I am from a blurry image. Parts of me feel like smoke and now I’m just waiting for a strong enough breeze to sweep me away.
There are parts of my head that I want to shut off, and there are parts of my heart I want to keep quiet. I can’t tell where this screaming is coming from but these tears keep threatening to spill from my eyes. It’s like there’s a tripped wire somewhere in me that has let something shift, when it shouldn’t.
It doesn’t feel like a cold friend. And this doesn’t have a sick comforting familiarity.
Something aches inside of me, something feels missing. I can’t put my finger on it but I feel the gray under my skin. Warm water doesn’t wash it away and neither does his hands.
I don’t know where I got lost but somehow I have no idea where I am. I’m lost even to myself.
I want to wake up and pretend this is all a dream. But it’s not, and there’s no warm bed I’ve forgotten to wake up in.
There’s a lonesome piece of myself still cold from your absence. I tell myself I’m okay now, I tell myself I’m fine.
Every cell I’m comprised of still feels the ache of missing and the ache of hurt; every cell still shivers with the memory of the cold.
My fingers can’t feel anything but you and everything else fees like water, or it feels like sand. My lips remember the imprint of yours and nothing else can sate them.
I can press myself further into him and close my eyes and repeat lies until they feel true but there’s a wide burden of you that’s still gaping and weeping. The stone in the center of my chest has no intention of budging or flexing and I can’t feel for anyone else what I could feel for you. I don’t know how to become pliable.
Your soul still lingers with mine and they dance in your memory.
I thought I was over you but it turns out the ghost of you left remnants in every crease I’ve ever been made out of.
There’s parts of something still holding on and I feel it cutting into the soft flesh and tearing me into pieces of myself.
Somehow I still miss you.
Somehow I can’t replace you in the heart of me that is made out of love.
Somehow I’m not letting myself let go of you.
Before you showed me what you were made out of, you were perfect for me. And I can’t seem to let that go.
This weight on my chest stays perched like it’s always been there. Usually I forget it even exists.
There’s a dizzy draining of my thoughts flowing down a pipe that I don’t remember placing in my foundation. My hands are open to catch anything that doesn’t make it through, but I can’t seem to close my fingers and everything slips. It touches my skin and for a moment, I think I can really feel it.
But then it’s gone.
I’m left cold from the memory of it ghosting and something is misplaced and I’m just a little bit off. This warmth under my skin is so unfamiliar and it radiates not unlike a poison and it evaporates everything that exits the end of that pipe.
The cold comforts in a sick way and I’m getting used to the heat. Sometimes, in my sick ways, I wish it would leave me with the frost that so easily cradles my very form. Those desires are fleeting now, and the warmth feels like the sun and I can almost bask in it.
But then I lose pieces of me that runs down that dizzy drain. The grip on the ledge that gives me clarity into me is so hard to hold onto. I’ve lost my grip a few times. I feel myself slip down the pipe with everything else and the tight walls leave me gasping for the water I can’t breathe in.
I ache for the cool running thoughts that flood my blood but all I am is warm.
I’ve always been drawn to red. To orange, to yellow. I’ve always ached for the warmth I never had.
Now all I dream of is blue.