Skye (echo_ocean) wrote,

i never spoke to her..

my bare hands, and my feet on the wooden floor were so cold i could not stand, could no longer cling to anything. i fell forwards. fearing the steps, i bent my hands around the post, intwined my fingers together. i appeared to be dreaming, and in time i regained full consciousness, opening my eyes to look at her whose mouth and lips were caked with dryness. her skin had been scorched and her fingernails were uncut. she kept pausing and staring into my eyes, as though willing me to speak before her. and always looming somewhere at the cliff of my mind was the photographic image of her skin, as if her wild, running body had inhabited my very spirit. the image was eternally out of reach, just slightly faded, madenning me in her refusal to answer my desires. was there a purpose in my lust? or did the swirling thoughts of night exist to torment me, to occupy the spaces of imagination, to, in a discontent way, comfort me, give some meaning to life?

i'm very socially anxious. all bodies around me seem to move in slow motion. i find myself almost completely still. i have a face, two arms, two legs, in a corner - this constant awareness of where i am standing is as present as my heart (which sounds rather like thunder) or my breathing (which is like lying by an ocean.) i think i outcasted myself, but in saying so.. i never believed i had a choice in the matter. i kept my head over paper so i would not feel my face flush upon trying to speak. i began to write of imaginary characters to make up for my lack of social interaction. full eight hour days of being unsettled, of either trying so hard it brought me to tears, or sitting in the background pretending i did not wish to talk. it's in human nature to say we never want our hearts most true desire out of fear it shall not come about. it takes bravery to speak of dreams.

you know, i don't really blame my alcoholic father, but in some sense i do not have the courage to answer him. my words lie in the corner of my mind, small scrappy words forcing their way into the maze of my throat between the rough and rusty uncertainty that tells me to keep silent. there is really nothing to say. except that i have let this bite on my skin grow, from not bringing words of anger to light. he always slept as though he was dead, a doll-like figure, snoring, a dribble of wine across his cheek.

it is as if i now know where i am. when i move, i do so with purpose and certainty. the stillness and silence was only an episode of my past. i sip this soft white tequila before work. my bubble of warm comfort which enables me to speak with a power years of therapy could not bring. i can meet the beautiful eyes of my customers and serve them with assurance.
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