Visceral

Forced to stand in black. I would say the black but black is there in more ways than one.

Grass grows and is swallowed by the sky. Nothing on this entire face but for me, not that it matters if I see nothing but stars.

Dragging my bodily hands and arms through these blades of grass to see her one more time.

Tears you cannot see.

I can only see her if I feel like I'm dying.

Even then she doesn't always appear.

I'm scared to ask for a name. Once she is realized I fear it will be too much. and she'll be gone.

What if she doesn't want to see me.

If she sees half of the disgust I see in the mirror.

I don't know how many times I can die before I fade for good.

My eyes burn.

My scars stare at me unblinking. Accusing me of the sins I have not addressed.

Frantically pressing my flesh back together in the dark, wrapping my hands around their arms tightly. A goodbye hug in the dark.

Tears driving down a face as if their only purpose was to soak clothes and let everyone know I had been crying.

Nothing works when I pay attention.

My legs cross over each other on the carpet, my back hunched, shaking uncontrollably. Cupping my hands to my face. Can I please live without dying?

I doubt I even want it but these moments before the end make me feel empty.

Pale, diamond white hands move into my blurry vision, elbows around my neck. A cheek rests on the back of my head, hair slides down around my face like a tent hiding my tears from the world. She finally made it. My body stops shaking, my heartbeat slows, her hand moves to trace a circle on my back.

"I don't understand. why do you keep putting yourself through this?" She winces with confusion as if she knew.

If I tell her she might stay, If I tell her she might understand, If I tell her maybe the throbbing boulder in my throat will go away, If I tell her maybe it might help. Maybe I won't feel like my insides are constantly being ripped and shredded.

If I tell her she could leave. This could be the very last time I ever see her again.

"I don't know."

Her finger abruptly stops tracing, then continues. "That's okay.," she whispers soothingly. Without a trace of disappointment.

What I want and what I will need are different. I have been deciding I don't care.

She turns her head around resting the other cheek on my skull, tightening her arm around my neck.

(Silence would swallow the world if not broken.)

"There was a man that died and I didn't make it in time to comfort or ease him into transition. In his hand was a book. Every page was empty except the last one.

It read,

Remember your life, hold on to the most boring of memories.... they turn out to be the most cherished. In one spot in your mind, they'll stay there. You will have a better grasp on time, progression. Don't hold onto the past, or the present, remember it, don't dwell on it. Don't let yourself believe anything is the same. It's not. It never will be. Fill your pages better than mine. It doesn't matter if they are good, disappointing, or different from other books' pages. They will be yours and you will have owned them. Hold what you love like a dandelion. If you let it go or let the breeze catch, it'll disappear. But you won't, you'll have held it."

she concludes by sliding down my back and lying down face under my own. Hands clasped together on her chest. She reminds me of the corpse of a loved one. Warranted looks of unrequited love and admiration. Pale perfect beauty, dressed well enough for a deathbed.

My body throbs violently inside itself. I don't want to try. I don't want to live. I rest my head on her stomach, she runs her hands through my thick hair, pulling all the pain out of my skull, and replacing it with comfort.