February 25th, 2011


(no subject)

And it is easier to curl into your body like a dying moth, cursing everything that is wrong with your life, claiming it is too much and you can't you just simply can't. Calling yourself names you do not mean but hope others will think you do and will in turn try to reverse your vocabulary because they care. And they do care. Saying, "I give up" because it is safe to pretend to give up in that moment, it feels real but not real but a place for you to be and not exist, for everything to go away. To want to disappear, imagine yourself gone, fantasize about your body splayed in uncomfortable poses and police tape and cameras flashing and people sobbing in the background, to do it but not really.

It is easier, yes.

There may be nothing glamorous or painfully beautiful about getting yourself out of bed to do dishes or pay bills or look for a job. It may be dull or dreary. Your heart may feel like it is trapped inside the window of your ribs, beating along sluggishly because it must at least do that. You may want to shove everything you own off their shelves and leave the debris there because you do not care, and certainly can't be bothered.

But in those moments of scrubbing or filing or simply moving your body out of your bed the wings in your heart are stirring, however gently. And the more you move, the more you let your heart beat, the more you stretch out your arms and imagine you see your blood traveling throughout your body, the more air those wings feel and if you just clean that dish hard enough it will catch the wind and you will be up, and up, and up, even if for a mere moment.

Would it have been easier if you had just stayed in bed? It might have been. But you will never fly staying on the ground.