Sunday, July 4, 2010

brushing my teeth is my everest

It feels wrong going to bed without you.  I will do anything, anything, to keep from closing my day, because without you it doesn’t feel complete, I don’t feel like I have accomplished anything.  I’ll sit in my swivel chair and spin and spin and spin, curling into myself until I disappear into the pearly black seat; but as I try to shrink away I feel my skin pulling off my bones, stretching beyond resiliency, and I am the epicenter as every inch of me is taught and ready to shatter into a million fragile piece.
Brushing my teeth is like my Everest.  Changing into my pajamas is more gruesome than a contortionist fitting into a carry-on suitcase.  Every night I don’t hear from you is worse than the night terrors, so I lay awake with my eyes wide open and my body straight-jacketed down under two comforters and three fleece blankets, I am freezing and the stillness and silence are screaming at me.  So I fill the noise with Hulu episodes because it’s safer to judge the wardrobe and critique the dialogue than sit around and wait.  I know I won’t wait long.  Loneliness is more impatient than I am, famished and starving for my recently moisturized skin (another procrastination tactic).  Then the movie reel ticks on, and I’m ambushed by every moment, every thought, every you.  I tuck deeper into the covers and squeeze my eyes real tight and set my jaw, because in every junior novel the hero always sets his jaw before meeting a challenge head on and tonight I am alone and left to become my own hero.  
Sometimes I will think of that first night, or that first moment I realized we were brilliant together, and it will make me feel better (actually it will just make me miss you more) and then I’ll fall asleep and wake up in the morning and everything is fine, the tempest has passed, and I’ll go about my day until something reminds me of you and then my chest will start to ache where my heart is supposed to be but I don’t think it is because I’ve never had a chest X-ray and since you left I’ve lost a lot of weight, but that’s about when the ache will move to that lump in my neck and I’ll take a deep breath and tell myself everything is fine, but I know I’ll chastise myself tonight for being weak as I’m wrestling my make up off and pacing around my room trying to force the walls back because I can’t breath and this new night alone feels like my impending doom.
I’m hoping that by writing this down I’ll feel better, like admitting a lie or telling a complete stranger a secret relieves pressure.  This pencil feels heavy and I’m tired of looking at my handwriting so I think I’ll get a head start on Loneliness and think about that time you kissed me so hard we fell off the couch laughing and holding each other tight.

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