The Stage

You ask for distraction.
You ask for reason.

It is November, and your heart is a pendulum. There is no way to stop it. You scotch-tape metaphors to your body to try to be beautiful. There is a strange tenderness to the way you hurt yourself; you use your thoughts like landmines — you step down hard.

No one told you about the quiet.
How it would come and cover everything; no one told you to wrap yourself in it,
like a person lost in the snow.

You are stubborn; your uncle tells you that you lead with your chin. Your mother tells you that you crack your knuckles too much. Your father doesn’t say anything at all — he hasn’t in years. On car rides you stare out the window, and your chest aches.

There is no trick to living.

Therapy. Medication.
Hospitals.

Nothing gets into your bones. You keep the journals, but you never write about yourself. You turn your grandmother into a raven; she sits in a split tree. You don’t mind the lightning.

You breathe.
And you keep breathing.

The things you can say and the things you can’t carry the same weight.
It never gets lighter, but you get stronger.

There is no trick to living.

Therapy. Medication.
Hospitals.

You breathe.

… I breathe.

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1 comment
  1. Keep breathing. I know it feels hard sometimes, but keep breathing. ❤

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