Made of The Nothing

Photo by cjohnson7 from Rochester, Minnesota

Photo by cjohnson7 from Rochester, Minnesota

From the center of my paranoia rises a smoke signal urging me to quest on in spite of the screeching halt some part of me has decided on.

Our landscape changes in an instant.  I envision new mechanisms for safety: intuitively I fashion tools then used to disconnect my body from the rushing stream of threat perceived at every angle.  A strange island results: quiet, small as a heartbeat, porcelain and protected from mainland ailments, I am under glass, in a teapot; I am Princess on pillows made of The Nothing.  Screaming Gods of chaos manipulate the universe around, but static and lightening won’t land here.  I am blind behind glassy eyes.  This is holding on.

One day after this storm has passed, a breath test against mirror indicates to my Brain I’ve pulled through.  Nothing feels alive.  Driftwood branches are lodged inside my limbs, soggy wet sand weighs muscle down, and dead fish color my complexion.  After what seems like years of nothing but breathing, heavy heaving of my ribcage against the earth, slowly I feel the dome over me lift.  Cool air rushes in (relief), even as I mourn that escape of heat.  My fingers tingle and blood rushes back, nerve endings begin connecting, I am cut up stinging all the way to bone in seconds.  Hours later sleep complete with dreams nurse these wounds from intensive care status, I am allowed to leave hospital having only unsightly scars soon enough.  Love massages knots slowly out back at home, and oil from our sex renders stiff joints flexible.

The language of pain awoken by Monster Misunderstanding is primary; no one is free from its storytelling.

We each have a relationship with our closet – that place we keep our clothes: woven bits of coverage allowing our naked shape to be unclear to one another and offering a mask for hiding behind all at once.

My body is uncovered now and I step toward you.  There are scars on my feet but I forget they are ugly only underneath, I don’t consider that you cannot see where the jagged purple lines extend to, leading back through my life.

I stand on coals for you.  Hot fire.  Deep pain.  Good days you catch me when I fall trying.  My act is unnecessary, but it’s how I know to be, I want to make you see.

Later we lay down touching each other in the dark.  I wonder at the inconsistencies my fingers brush over.  Can one truly accept the unending mystery of another?

To Breath and Being,
~ Karin

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