the storm

I can feel it in my gut, you say,

you look me straight in the eye. 

My hand placed there, yes, just

above your collarbone,

I want to feel it too. I want 

to know it as well as you do. 

Yet, all that's in my gut is

an army of little sea men,

setting barrels--pulling down

masts and tying knots. So many

knots, tethering me down in 

the midst of all these tossings,

the turnings.

Lightning licks my insides, dark

clouds hanging overhead, a great storm! 

I won't allow myself to be cast overboard,

I can't be derailed,

my arms sore from holding to my ship,

calling to my crewmates, please; I'm here, 

I'm safe. 

When is it okay to let go, I wonder,

and my hand is still on your collarbone, hanging

on to the sinewy handle like I'm holding to to the rails.

Not today, not today. My eyes find 

my hands, purple from the cold, and 

my hands find my pockets. 

ouch

 I keep bleeding.

every time my finger bends, I find a new cut. flesh is sliced every time I turn a page, or if a knife nicks my knuckle. blood stains my pillowcase. 

It's not that I'm afraid of it--the red, pinkish stains it leaves behind, or the hot pools leftover by my menstrual cycles. I'm not afraid of red blood cells or white blood cells or circulation or purple veins. I'm afraid of what it signifies; I'm terrified of pain. 

I'm worried that if I read more books, the stinging will continue, or worse, increase. How can I keep going when all I can predict is the pain? I cringe at any mention of soreness, or the sharp pains someone might feel upon injury. I'm wary of others in pain; I can't be around them too long, because it might be catching. 

The worst thing about pain is that you can't see it. My face might contort into a ball of frustration, and I might scream "damn" and "shit" and all kind of curse words at the sky, but you can never really see it. Something in us expects pain; anticipates it, knows somehow when someone else might cause us pain. We have a sense of when it might slide its way into us, but maybe that's the worst part. Some people say pain is blinding--others say you get used to it. 

The bruises on my knees are almost gone. It's strange to me, that some pain leaves no scars. At least none that are visible. Some pain is so deep, we might hold onto it like a scar, might expect that it's part of us in some way, that the skin formed around our cuts is too precious to forget about. Maybe that's what I'm doing; maybe I'm holding on to the pain because it's all I have left from what was. 

a letter

 you're not reading this, but if you are, when you see it, can you tell me if you think you did the right thing? is this what you wanted? I felt so powerless when it happened, and I feel remorseful and ashamed of the last 7 months, the months when I tried to love you less. I sometimes sit and wonder if you feel like I do, broken up inside and worried, and worthless, alienated, and I sometimes even hope you feel those things, but I end up imagining you feeling nothing but indifferent and apathetic. I'm sorry I was withdrawn. If I could change things about how I behaved the summer of 2017, I would. I don't know how life works, and it's hard for me to understand that one day you have someone and the next day you don't. I didn't know you were feeling this way, I didn't know this was an option you were considering. Maybe if I had, I would have tried harder. I blame myself for thinking you'd stick around, like you always did, but as soon as I stopped fighting, stopped the outrageous fighting that I had continued for the last four years, the fighting for you and the intense grip I had on everything. as soon as I stopped, you stepped away. Was I blind to this inevitability? If I had known, I would have given you a hug. You know, that last day, when you came over, and you needed someone, and I wasn't the person you needed me to be. We went through the drive-through and I complained about your dog in defense of my own vulnerability. You remember, when you were leaving, and we looked at each other, and I knew you wanted a hug, and you knew I didn't want to give you one. I can't reach out to tell you this. I don't feel like I'm allowed to, like suddenly you've created an invisible boundary that neither of us defined but that I think would be crossed if I tried to define it. I wish I would have said more. I wish it could have been different. I keep replaying it back in my mind; if I had known, I would have pulled you in and held you, at least one last time, to send you off with some semblance of love instead of all the cold I shot at you. 

thanks

6 years

74 months

323 weeks

2,259 days

54,215 hours

3,252,955 minutes

195,177,313 seconds

you said forever