I met my wife at a Star Trek convention. She was study abroad from France and spoke little English, and I didn’t know a lick of French. So, for the first few months of our relationship, we communicated by speaking Klingon.
I always think it’s interesting to see Fic recall where my stuff is posted, because you almost always see Here and Now on them with Blue Lips, but never Blue Lips with Treason and Loves Reason. And I think none of them are really alike, so it’s interesting.
I once went three weeks without speaking and my parents took it as defiance. I watched the wall for hours and can’t recall what color it was. I don’t know how to tell them sometimes I feel so hollow, such a profound absence in my own body. How sadness has traveled up to my throat and all I can do is drown.
I walk around at night when it’s just me and street lamps and find a strange comfort in gluing my body to the pavement like tire tracks, letting the toxic spill out of me like oil into sewer drains. I go to coffee shops and listen to the conversations of strangers. I watch them and wonder if they ever have trouble breathing, if they have the rivers of their veins memorized.
I go for runs around the city the days I’m strong enough to use my muscles. I listen to my bones dismember inside of me and for a second, feel the weight exit me like smoke. I swear I could fly. Instead, my knees dig into the dirt and I start weeping because it hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. It hurts to pull bullets out of me that are nearly as old as I am.
My mother asks how I can stay in bed for days. I tell her I can’t feel my legs. I tell her I can’t feel anything. My bed feels more like a coffin. She stays quiet and I know some people will never understand. I cut myself open like I’m both the surgeon, and the patient on the table. I let my ghosts crawl out of me like worms and let them breathe. It burns to have them in me, I don’t know who I am when they’re not.