#currently obsessed with intertwining metaphor and reality
What can you never go back to?
dreamless sleep. my hand without the weight of his in it. black coffee and dreary mornings, the relentless insistence that i was okay okay okay
for years i walked with an arm curled around my stomach, protecting the softest parts of me, wearing paperclip chainmail and hoping no one would get close enough to tell the difference. and then he shone a light right through me, exposed all the holes i didn’t know i had and got to work patching them up.
it is easy to explain away the holes if you don’t know you have them. there is less of you than there should be because it’s what you deserve. because you would buckle under the weight of more. because if you are smaller then others more deserving can be bigger. and if your shadow is fragmented, if the wind whistles as it flows through your body, then maybe it’s just your own kind of magic.
but once the holes have been identified, the papier mache excuses peel away and you’re left only with the exposed wounds, and the throbbing of your skin when he brushes his fingers across them. here, i wish this coffee tasted better (and why can’t it?). here, hold me hold me let me shake apart in a way where i can be put together again (go ahead dear, i’ve got you).
where do we go from here? the patching up hurts, even done by hands as gentle as his. but the whistling wind hurt, too, before. perhaps it would be easier to pick up my own needle and thread and join him instead of pulling at the sutures. perhaps it would be easier to let myself emerge.
