Granite Eyes -- Imploding

You're in my stomach again.
You're there -- growing.
I felt you take root, and I've counted the days. I've named you.
I rest my hand lightly on my abdomen, and I feel you there.
My skin is bulging, stretching, wishing you were on the other side.
You're an ache.
You're there -- growing.

I fear the consequences of your final departure.
You'll always be inside of me. (This is not what I meant when I leaned over in the dark and whispered lightly in your ear, "I want you inside of me.")
But when you leave me, you'll still be inside of me. (But inside of her. Really inside of her.)

My stomach is boiling.
I take this as a sign that you share in my rage, in my hatred of her.
We are even more, in this fire.
We scare me, our murderous hands.
She is not safe.
Is this the price she is willing to pay for my tender moments? (You're mine. You're inside of me.)

I rise and fall, with my chest.
The high point, there is none.
But the valleys alternate... rage, despair, and rage, and despair.

Get out while you can, if you must.
But you're already inside of me.
And I know you're not willing to kill me.
But are you willing to love me?

(I love you.)

The ache starts in my stomach. It slides up my esophagus, into my intestines. My chest is frozen, and then begins moving inward, crushing my weak lungs. Electric shocks burst through the veins in my legs. My shoulders tense, my fingers curl.

"Where are you?" I hear a whisper in the dark. I feel my lips brush together, my tongue does a dance inside my mouth.

I roll to my side. Tears slide to my lashes, and no further. The ache is like a black hole, sucking everything in, towards my chest. I'm afraid that I can't hold it all, I will burst.

Forbidden words imprint themselves on the walls of their prison cell. Pink flesh is scorched with words that have no language. Inscribe me with these. Fire burns and cleanses and leaves scars.

You are not my past, nor my future. You are everything, for all time. This distance causes this strange emptiness. The absence of your hands makes my skin reach out to you. Tearing at the nerves and muscles that lie beneath. The pain is growing stronger.



My heart has been replaced by an exquisite lack of anything that can be explained by science. Something unseen, but theorized. Powerful currents draw my organs from their proper places into knots and tangles.





"Please," the whisper comes again. The flesh, my tongue is dry. "[beep]" the forbidden syllables, forever trapped. The non-existence growing, please take these words as well.

A story.

once upon a time in a far away land there was a girl.
she was walking through the woods and found
a blue ribbon lying on the ground.
she picked it up and noticed that it smelled
like cinnamon, which she liked,
so she tied it in her hair.
she then proceeded to get very lost,
even though she walked through the woods every day.
but even though she was lost, she wasn't scared.
in fact, she kind of enjoyed being lost.
she found a tree with oranges growing on it,
picked one, and sat down under the tree.
she ate the orange, and it was delicious.
she decided to take the ribbon out of her hair
and tie it around the tree branch
to mark the tree so that she would be able to find it again.
she continued to walk through the woods and found herself at home,
no longer lost, but she had no idea how she got there.
and she never was able to find the tree again.
the end.

Take a chance?

Regrets are creeping up on me, but not the one's you'd think. Everyone deserves one of these, but I don't want one right now. I don't usually go out on limbs, but I don't usually do anything. I definitely don't usually do this. Is it my brain? My hormones, neurons, lying to me? I suddenly care so much as to whether or not you're thinking of me, and mere months ago we were strangers in the same town. And I just don't feel bad about this, and I don't want to.