I want to be alone. I want silence and stillness. I want the silence that comes with contented-ness, the secrecy and solitude of peace. I want to live in the vastness of comfort.
I am never alone. I wear you like an overcoat around my heart. I breathe you, I eat you, my body burns your calories to survive, I cry your tears and swallow your screams. My mind is so full of you, I have been suffocated out. I fight for every thought, my energy consumed with beating back your voice. I dissolve; I think “at this too, I have failed.” What is this list I have suddenly created? It is full of your failures. Your failures have eaten mine, they have subsumed them. I live them, apologize for them, seek to correct them. And suddenly see my own failures multiply. My mind is a clown car. Over full, preposterously stuffed, uncomfortably arranged, and shrunken, minuscule. I want you alive so that you can take back your words, your actions, your intentions, your everything.
At night, when I wake up from the thousandth bloody, ship wreck nightmare, I re-imagine our last moment. I walk in, I see you and I don’t scream. I come to you, I kneel in front of you and I lift you. You’d be so light. And then I hold you to me so hard that you absorb into me, I take you, I take all of you that you may not be alone. My body opens to you and I soak up every ounce of your pain and anger, your confusion, your lost opportunities. In my imaginings, I don’t bring you back to life, I eat your life so that you may not die alone in pain.
Because what story should I reach for when I wake up furious or in terror? Your image is present no matter what I do. The reel, the real, that plays- it is so catastrophic that my mind automatically shifts the story.
I am heavy, I am full. I keep my nose above the water, I tread, I tread, I tread.