don’t talk to me don’t even fucking look at me the long press of my forehead fogging up coldly against the window with the snow outside and clouds dashed through the darkness of the night. i’m pulsing, i’m a rope with tension, i’m tight in the muscles. i’m shaking, my fingers tremble when i hold them up and i don’t know how to make them stop. make it subside, no wait please don’t i like this. people shout too much and i’m a quiet person. my voice wavers even when i talk to myself, don’t fucking talk to me. please. leave me alone.
crying crying crying.
my lungs yearn to breathe some other air than this smog of sadness.
the looming darkness awaits, which is the only witness to your chills you shiver from under your covers and the quick gasps of your breaths because you are convinced that every forced intake will buy you more seconds, minutes, hours in your life. you think you’ll die on a winter night, with the soft snow falling and the light grey sky looking down on everyone sleeping. dread is too weak of a word; anticipating is an adjective you don’t want to describe yourself. being awake is the only way you know for sure you exist.
vulnerable: over the phone, where you cannot see him but the shakiness of his breathing wavers with every pause he endures from you. taking a step back, when he realizes he’s been exposed and anticipates the plausible hurt. crying, when he doesn’t look at you but you know he wants to and all you can do is squeeze the air into your lungs and look at him.
maybe i want to retain my childhood too much. it isn’t the innocence i miss but the way we all had potential to be anything, do anything. mistakes weren’t too severe back then; we could be forgiven easily and readily because we couldn’t have known better. some days i feel locked in place, caged in a box called growing up and it’s shrinking by the day.
scientists have discovered that the cell walls of yeast rises and falls three nanometers, vibrating one thousand times per second. humans perceive that sound to be the c sharp to d above middle c. what if they actually succeed in finding the pitch a human cell would make? bone cells have a lower pitch than yeast cells. what would a myocardial cell sound like? it isn’t enough for me anymore to hear a heart beat now that i know each individual cell has its own hum. imagine touching someone and causing a symphony in their body. the buzz of their body in the quiet of the night, reassuring their lover they are still very much alive and awake even if they are sleeping. the melody of his body, her body, my body. a song in every one of us.
looking out my cold window, there are no more inviting lights, no more candlelike rimmings, no more togetherness. each house stands proud and erect, like saying “i stand here and for you to cross into my territory is dangerous for you.” the nation i live in has such a strong sense of ownership, certain things belong to me and these belong to you, you, and you, not necessarily because i want you to have them, but because they are of no need for me. they’re like these houses, austere divided, with an air of “don’t touch me.” but give me a rounded house, give me a house without straight edges and rigid framework, a house that under any sky would soothe your bones, a place anyone would look and think, “oh, home.”
unfoldings of beginnings, like slips of paper tucked with secrets being opened gingerly, the notion of potential happenings being anticipated, the realization of not knowing, the giddiness of dreaming, even if for a little while, and closing my eyes and wanting and wishing. the night cradles me but the silence is too intimidating to sleep in.