Theory 11

Let’s get ugly. Let’s rip our skin off and press out hearts together to restart them. Then we can trade them, eat them, to fill our empty chests and feel togetherness again. Let me love you, in realness, in completeness with screaming passion. Let me feel alive again. Let me touch you.

When you reach my heart, like live wires touching, I am shocked into honesty. I fly outside my body, zooming over head and I see how small I have made myself, how small I am now, that I may fit into every day life. My sadness is so much larger than I have given it room. He and I conceived it together, and now I hold it inside of me, it grows and I feel its pressure on my every organ. My sadness aches and groans as it grows, as I keep it distant.

I am memory. I am the distance between the plug and the wall as soon as it is disconnected. I am diminishingly small, disappearing between the centimeters. My body tastes of dark blue ash, my mind glowing red hot. I am aspen in flames. Burning deep and alone.

And even now I am afraid of this fact- small, true, resonant. No, not small, as I will it to be. Huge. Come hold me as I cry, my sadness is too large to contain alone. Too heavy. Too deep and pervasive. I need you to get ugly with me. Anyone, let’s rip our masks off, step outside our bodies, abandon them as sacrifices. Let’s run naked and exposed directly into Lake Michigan and let the ice cool our burning centers. Then let’s weep, unyielding. I would weep endlessly. Or let’s touch, let’s fuck, our bodies violent as the crashing waves, slamming together over and over, ripping each other apart, that I may know you, expose myself to you, release myself with free abandon; that I may weep, as long as it takes.

If I prayed, I would say: let my sorrow be simple.

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