The way the smoked curled
around the fabric of your lungs,
a tickling reminder of your body's
will to live.
She's sick of trying to put it out,
this fire, impossible to douse,
melting melting melting
tiredness is oozing
reminder of the impossibility
As the light recedes into the horizon, the north wind seep through cracks in the window and slits in the door. My toes are cold against the bedroom floor, and I wonder when my blood will unthaw, and when I might feel the light once again.
Over time, her mouth became a string instrument tightened with the tension of constraining her words.
Measures between her laughs and ivory smiles grew longer, each beat of silence lingering for just a note too long.
More often than not, tired sandpaper lids scrape against the white expanse of her eyes, exposing the red vein strings hiding beneath; they turn the half note circles below into shades of a minor key.
At night, her heart thrums to the rhythm of a staccato symphony: rising, rising, rising, as if her conductor brain commands it - faster, faster, faster.
Frantic thoughts create a polyphonic sound of worry and dejection - melodic harmonies to the hasty trills within her xylophone ribcage
These sounds echo in the acoustics of her skull like the clicks of an off beat metronome.
Prompt: “Write about a change you have noticed in your lifetime, but write only about the things that embody or illustrate this change. It might be a change you have noticed in a friendship, in the body of a loved one, in your hometown…” (Pagh 79)
I am writing this in response to the overwhelming hole I caused within my own heart.
A heart that was blackened by darkness, shrunken and shrivelled by the overhwhelming urge to cast love away.
You see, the first thing that books never tell you about depression is not the loneliness you feel inside, (lord knows I know enough of that) but the loneliness it creates around you.
(The very same loneliness that made me push you away, afraid of exposing the darkness within.)
You may ask why I kept silent, but what you may never understand is that opening up about the darkness is far more treacherous than keeping it hidden.
(You can wrap a cold heart in silence until the broken beats disappear from fuzzy ears.)
And it is for this reason I never told you, friend, and for that reason I guess our friendship has come to an end.
I am no better now than I was then - my heart is barely healed, wrapped in patchwork fabrics of silence, loneliness, lethargy.
There are days when I wake up without feeling awake at all. I am constantly drifting in a sleepy conscious, tip toeing a line between the light and this darkness, wondering if anyone would try to stop me from plunging into the deep.
The place where my blackened heart lay, friend, is the place where our friendship is buried today - wrapped in patchwork fabrics of my silence, regret, and anger.
I am sorry friend for the unanswered calls and texts, the cancelled plans, and the friendship I traded for rest.
There's a lump in my throat when I talk to you - a painful lump that is there because I don’t know how to speak to you without wanting to burst out in apologies and explanations.
But what you may never know is how you still kept the darkness at bay even though I never gave you a chance to know that it existed.
So thank you for healing my heart without knowing its terminal illness.
“One need not be a chamber – to be haunted, One need not be a house; The brain has corridors – surpassing Material place. . Ourself, behind ourself concealed, Should startle most; Assassin, hid in our apartment, Be horror’s least.”