Waking, I wonder why I’m bothering. I feel like my bones were sketched in, and my skin, but nothing in between. Like the center of a birds bone, I am hollow. Voices over the line mean everything to me and nothing. Paradox machina, it’s my mind, it’s my frame. Hanging up, cutting off words, sentences, I don’t know because instead of listening I bring my knees to my chest and perch, trying to remember what it felt like to have wings, what it felt like to fly. Is this peace of mind? I wasn’t aware that my eyes were liquid, that the world had blurred, until I heard a drop of clear water tap into my leg. Every finger on the keys is dreaming of a piano, every letter a little note of melancholy, of something that I don’t think I can name. How can I suspect myself of being so fragile? I tried for something beautiful. I used to know how to be angry, but now I know how to hurt. Sometimes it’s better, everything inward. What is the use of broken pieces to collect and toss in the bin? Inside me is a place where every moment of irritation, every interaction that leaves me wanting to rage has instead been moved into shining pain. It claws up from the top of my belly into my throat, leaving me useless in words, leaving me as nothing more than a doll without voice. I tell myself I don’t mind as I tell myself I love them. There’s nothing else I can do if I’m going to stay except say please. This is not for me to change. This was an anomaly, this wasn’t me in the scheme of things. This was being swept up by left behind promises of trying to combat an everyday existence with nothing in it.
