I’d love to tell you.
I’d love to tell you. I’d love to let it fall like a feather onto linen. I’d love for my words to find a home, for them to be easy. There is nothing easy about them, and there is nothing easy about me.
I’m a tangled person. My insides are tied up in knots. I can’t unravel them without feeling like everything is going to come pouring out of me. I don’t want my story to leave the places I’ve tried so hard to nest it in. I don’t have enough room for the pain. I’m trying to leave it alone, hoping it’ll return the favour, but it never leaves me, it never settled, and it never rests.
My memory is crystalized and sharp. I encode everything, sucking it out of every room I’ve been in. There are so many places I want to land in again. There are so many people I want to go back to. I'd hope to be able to hold them close, but I don't think I'm much better at that today. "I'm hurting more than I could ever say now, and I'm sorry that it shows."
I don’t know how to tolerate being “too much”, but sometimes I'd like to let myself be exactly that.
I think I’ll never be okay.