Sometimes I feel you clawing at the inside of my chest, trying desperately - wildly - to get out. Through my throat, perhaps. Across my tongue in a world of words that I’ve always never spoken, and through a song that was never meant to be sung. It feels good. It reminds me that I’m alive.
Lately though. Lately.
I feel you pound. I feel you rage inside a cage of marrow and splintered bone. Your drumbeat reaches all the way inside my ears - a pulsing go, go, go.
You ache a lot, you know? You’re some kind of twisted reminder that there are crevices and cracks and bruises and jagged edges and you will just not let me forget …
That you are there.
Sometimes I tear at my shirt, the feeling of claustrophobia so intense that I think it’s the material covering my chest that is holding me … trapping me … refusing to relent a grasp on me. But it’s you, isn’t it? It’s the feeling of you slamming into my ribs.
You stop sometimes, too. My palms sweat and a tingle runs down the length of my too straight spine, and I feel your pause. In every atom, every sinewy fiber, and every inch of my lungs that are holding in heated air.
I feel your pause.
I feel your reminder on some kind of spiritual level. I feel you telling me to take a deeper damn breath. To just take a second.
Before another blow comes.
Before another break happens.
Before another bullet barrels through.
But the very worst.
The almost unbearable.
Is the desperate break I feel. When I can physically feel you tear apart right down the middle. When my brain screams down at you to toughen up, to tighten your laces, to hold yourself together. When you don’t even listen. When a shining piece of you - one that has never been marred - rips.
That’s the very worst.
And I seem to be missing pieces of you, too. You know? I’ve given so much of you away to others. The scars that show I’ve cut away pieces with some kind of kitchen butter knife still remain. They’re labeled with names like The Fairytale and The One That Got Away and The Liar and The One That Made Me Feel Like I Wasn’t Enough. And now, another. The stitches are still too raw for me to name, but I’m thinking I’ll call this one The One That Was Too Dark.
You still keep beating.
Which, to me, has always been the most remarkably beautiful part of it all.
A steady rhythm.
Even in the darkest moments.
You’ve given me a count. Something to concentrate on.
I take a deep breath.
I take a step forward.
And I try again.
Disclaimer: This piece was inspired by something I witnessed from afar this week. And for The Moms and The Boyfriend (who is probably wtf'ing right now) -- this isn't about me.
. About Moi .
I love, love, love flannel sheets and I am really passionate about lists on post it notes and most of the time I'm sad that no one else is as excited as I am about Diet Mountain Dew. I also adore run-on sentences.
He saw her before he saw
anything else in the room.
- F. Scott Fitzgerald
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