That Sobering Moment When You Are Brushed By Death. Only By Proxy; A Tragedy Twice Removed.

I was never meant to have a body.

My tethered little pet.

So much responsibility to look after.

So much washing and clothing and tucking away.

I was never meant to rot so slowly.

From diseases, I will never know.

So much tending to my body needs.

So much aching and soothing and drugging away.

I was never meant to hold it's hand.

Like a mother holds a child.

So much guarding it needs.

So much hiding and cherishing and giving away.

I was never meant to have a body.

There was a little girl. Maybe she was in me; maybe she was me.

But she talked too loud and she hurt and she cried and I didn't know how to make her stop.

So I slapped a hand over her mouth and held it there until she stopped struggling. Until it was quiet.

Maybe it was hate; maybe it was fear. I'm not sure why I did it and I don't know if she's still here.

Sometimes I feel echoes in memories of the person I used to be. The kind that feel like hope and pain and the unknown.

The me that cared so much I couldn't stand it. The feelings clawed at my throat and snubbed hot cigarettes in my eyes.

The emotions that set my limbs to restless and my heart racing until I was so exhausted i'd drop.

The me that was vulnerable. I killed her so I could be stronger, so I could be safe.

I feel distantly that I should mourn her but I can't think of a single thing about her to miss.

Maybe I'm not supposed to find myself in the past. Maybe I'm not going to achieve some mythical closure by carrying this sad corpse around with me. Maybe the best thing I can do is put her to rest an move on.

After all, you can't bring back the dead and I think that applies to yourself most of all.

I spent so much time trying to tell you how much you look like the sky.

I was wrong, the sky looks like you.

Your past is no excuse for your future

We’ve spent so much time describing people as beautiful things, I think it’s time we try describing things as beautiful people.

I want to know what you hold close when your feeling empty

I want to know what you claw together and stuff into your empty chest like cotton in a corpse.

When your numb and dead and there's nothing left what keeps your shape?

Is it worth it, This thing your clinging to?

Does it make you more human? Does it break the numbness?

When every piece of you is dead and gone what should I expect?

I rub the blanket across my cheek, trying to ground myself.

I feel your skin instead burning and intrusive. Grating on me.

I feel like I'm floating. I'm off in a dream.

Experiencing horrors I've already seen.

My breathing is heavy. I try not to scream.

I scrub at my skin. It never gets clean.

The grass is greener somewhere ahead. But half the time I'm walking backwards.

My biggest fear

My biggest fear is the fade of feelings between two people. When you know someone so well, you can guess the next words out of their mouth. When the feeling of their hand in yours or their arm around your shoulders is more familiar than your own skin. When you could have picked them out of a crowd from any angle. When they call you because the tone of your texts changed and they wanna make sure you're alright. When the sound of their voice is clear as day in your dreams. when the smell of their shampoo brings back a hundred memories. When their hopes and dreams are the goals you work towards.

Somehow, suddenly, there's space between you. Someone else is higher on their list of priorities. The Space and time they asked for just to get themselves together stretches long and silent between you. When the constellations you memorized in their freckles fades to a random spatter of dots. When the hundreds of shades of color in their eyes fade to solid rings of primary color.

When every little thing you spent time learning about them fades, your brain un-learning its favorite things. When the connection you felt so easily between you sputters and dies even when they're sitting right across from you. When you have to start wondering “should I tell them this?”, “can I tell them this?”. When they don't come to you with their problems and you're too nervous to tell them yours. When you go from seeing them every day to every other week to “I saw him a couple of months ago”. When they used to be your best friend and now they're just a stranger whose secrets you still keep.

There are hands on my hips and I dread where they might go; cold and calloused and full of intent.

They inch up instead along my ribs; crawling and scraping against my skin.

Under my sternum they begin to dig; slicing deep with sharpened nails.

They stab and burrow deep in my chest; hands pressed in prayer barely brush my heart.

They snap my bones when they pull apart; prying me open to hungry eyes.

Yet still, I beat for their entertainment; exposed and bleeding and no longer me.