Treading Water

We haven’t talked for such a long time, I can’t even recall the exact sound of your voice. I don’t remember your laugh - I remember the crinkles by your eyes and that dimple on your cheek and how it deepens - but I don’t know what it feels like to hear it, how it once made my heart swell in my chest, not anymore. And yet I’m sure that if I heard a million people laugh, yours would still stand out to me and maybe I’d turn around to look for the source and wonder how something so simple is enough to make my blood sing. We miss the memories, not the person, is what my father used to say, but how can he explain why I drop everything when I hear that one song we used to dance to and why that blue sweater you borrowed me still sits at the bottom of my closet when I could have thrown it away? How does missing someone make any sense when that person is still around, is somehow still a part of your life? How am I supposed to get over that? How does anyone?

At age 6, I was told that it was something we did to create life. At age 7, I was told that it was a sin. At age 9, I was told that my body would change to suit the “sin”. At age 10, I believed that it was a sin. At age 12, I felt my first burst of attraction and I had no perception of what it was. At age 13, I was told to dress “safely” to avoid prying eyes. At age 14, I was curious to see the beauty of a naked male body. And I was ashamed. At age 15, I saw my first naked male body. And I was entranced. At age 16, I committed quite a sin. And nothing ever felt better. At age 17, I was no longer afraid of it. Sexuality. I embrace it.

Maybe sometimes, we are the ones breaking our own hearts. We walk into a situation, get attached to someone all by choice. And then we let them break our hearts, because we’re the ones who gave them the opportunity to.

If we’re being honest, I’m lying.

I write poems about flowers but can’t manage to keep any alive. I spent a whole summer when I was fifteen not going to bed until the sun was up because I thought the dark was trying to eat me. Even now, when I bleed, I expect demons to seep out. My days are arranged by color; my brightest moments are always shimmering in pink. I’ve cried at too many sunsets and not enough sunrises. I don’t live anywhere near the water and can’t swim so I’m always falling in love with boys on the west coast. I collect song lyrics instead of stamps. I won’t be content with my body until it’s covered in ink and I don’t mind looking at it in a mirror. Home still feels like just another empty word I don’t fit into. I’ve never broken a bone and I guess that’s my consolation price for a jumbled mind. At twenty-one I’m still too small for most roller coasters, but can still fit on most swing sets. These days I sleep with lavender and blueberry incense on my pillow to try and keep the nightmares away. My heart is always straining against my rib cage, and I think one of these days it might liquefy and spill right through the cracks.