Lately I've been feeling bold,

perhaps it's just the meds.

But I kind of want to chase this feeling

and see where it leads.

It already has led me to changing my hair

and putting more effort into myself.

but should I reach out?

Text him to see if he actually wants to get coffee

or if it was just something nice he said.

Should I give this a chance

or just allow myself to let my life pass me by

without doing anything about it?

Perhaps I'll give it a shot

but I'm more likely to revert back to my old ways

and not take a single chance on life.

Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding. The question is whether the shell is one meant to be cracked, as in the shell of a nut or seed, or one wherein cracking means a broken spine, desiccation, certain death.

When the pain is of a specific kind, you know deep down, no matter how often you try to twist it into having a worth, your shell is that of a snail or turtle, and you are just dead meat waiting to be consumed. That pain brings you an understanding of what it feels like to know, to dread your own sibling’s hug because of what will follow. The understanding of what follows, of adulthood. Adulthood is knowing what’s happening and with it, knowing why you’re in pain, wishing that knowledge made it hurt less but it didn’t. Doesn’t.

You try to take your understanding and use it somehow, write your way out of the pain, write what it feels like to be beneath his hands, write what you struggle to put to words verbally, and no, the words aren’t jumping out to a literary audience either, they’re hiding themselves away. Maybe the pain didn’t bring you understanding at all, just another layer of separation between yourself and The World where siblings squabble and love each other but not in That Way. Not in That Way, and yet he only loves you when you’re under him, providing sensory stimulation, and what else can you do but do what he wants? What else can you do but pretend it isn’t pain at all?

The tears are from the winter wind whipping it’s way through your scarf, against your eyes, in no way related to too large hands and hushed breathes and “he doesn’t mean any harm” so no harm was done. No harm was done. No harm was done. You’re not in pain; you’re not real.

None of what happened to you really happened, so you’ll write about it two days later like it’s a story about understanding, like you’re a walnut shell, not a snail clinging desperately to your body-home. You understand. You’re not in pain, not when you read story after story about your favorite characters suffering the same way you did, not when you ask in a thinly veiled plea fic the author has experienced what they write about only to learn no, you really are alone, your suffering can be described even by those who don’t understand, are only imagining the pain of having their body used against them, their reactions excuses, their excuses justifications, those justifications signs you deserved it. You don’t have anyone telling you otherwise but these fiction authors imagining themselves in your reality, so you let yourself be comforted by mirages, let the Sun dry your snail skin from your cracked shell. Understand that nothing is real, not your pain, not you. Nothing.

Be gentle with your goodbyes

Next time,

Kiss harder

Hug tighter

Shake hands firmer

Smile brighter

But be gentle with your goodbyes

For it can be the last time out of nowhere

suddenly the last ride arrives

And we have no choice but to leave

Where the sun sets

Where the moon rises

Where a new journey begins

Be gentle with your goodbyes.

back

resting on hard metal

of the bedframe i slept on

for most of my life

back

in the room where i

wished on baby teeth

scribbled on diaries

slept on rainbow sheets

didnt think it would

happen

here now

but i cried in the car

and

we pretended i didnt then

you

waited on me to pack a bag and

i couldnt

couldnt hold in

illogical tears

squatted besides a table

i painted for my sister and

held my hands over my mouth

and sobbed

and waited for you to find me

because i couldnt speak

cant speak

can never speak silent

back

behind the bed the door opened

and i didnt know it was you until you

put your hand on my

back

whispered

held me

waited

loved me

put everything you were carrying

back

until it was just us

and my tears

and i said im sorry

and you said i dont need to be

and we went back

to silence

tearsoaked fading carpet

warm arm around my shoulder

thoughts slowly fading back

to normal

back to someplace that lets me breathe

im still sorry

that i cant speak and i dont know what i am

but thank you for bringing me

back

12.29.24