"Speak in images."
Where have I found myself? What a mess. “Speak in images, you know how to.”
I’m no longer frozen. But I’d like to go back. My muscles are aching from the time I spent laying in the glittering snow under the tall trees. Our safe space, the tickling of the gentle snow falling onto us, careful like no one had ever been before. Stories are speechless when you’re frozen. Memories are passengers, and they’ve taken the care to make their bed and smoothe the sheets before they move along. They’re painful, damp with regret and shame. But they don’t stay. They never land. There is no crevice to settle in or heat to rest in.
I have become an incubator. I don’t know what to do with it. Memories land and unveil, but they don’t leave. I don’t know how to share my body with the pain if I know where it comes from. I’ve started resenting my body again, but this time, it’s because I don’t know it. I’ve been sharing it, and I don’t know where my consciousness is anymore.
The truth is, I am in every single one of those memories. It can’t break my heart anymore, it just melts it until I am no one again.
How could I let anyone touch my skin again? I would tell you I’m afraid, or that I feel dirty, or ashamed, or ugly. But it’s actually because I don’t know what it means. I don’t want to find out what I’ve been deprived of. I don’t want to find out how bad it truly was. If I stay unloved, if I keep resenting affection like I have been, it will never click. I don’t know if it’ll be tolerable. I don’t know if I can let sadness come out from under the thick blanket of discomfort.
I want to be loved. I think I am, sometimes. But I’ve only let it knock, or stand in the doorway. I’ve never invited it in. The closer I get to people, the more fragile I become. And I’m tired of detaching or fighting love. I feel like I’ll collapse and disassemble if I get a taste. I’m afraid I’ll want more of it.
I think my friends know that I’m not ready, or that I’m scared. I think they want it to come from me. I’m so tired, everyone. I don’t want to exist, and I don’t know if I want to be given a reason to. Love will do that. I want to be able to keep wishing I was dead.
I’m sorry. But I’m not. I’m tired, worn out and through. And I want things I’m scared to want.