Edit: I took both Claritin and Ativan today. Ativan swirls my thoughts into spindled colors, clawed arms that reach for ashen skies. Claritin apparently spins me right out into intense disassociation. I’m ok. I’m really ok. I’ll be even better once I get some good sleep. All that follows needed to be said anyway.
We play fearlessly in the dark now.
If Manticore is our mother
who are these people calling us into houses blindingly fluorescent
In colors we don’t understand
Feelings beyond our comprehension
We don’t love
(Because you have to love yourself!)
We don’t love because it’s not safe
We are platonic and we are familial
We do not touch
We do not surrender physical acts of control
We do not surrender emotional acts of control
We don’t hug because we don’t show weakness. We don’t hug because if you don’t touch us, we feel safe. We don’t hug family because they stand too close. (Tell the truth. We don’t hug family because we don’t trust them.) They stand too close and they don’t entirely understand that getting close to our face makes us profoundly uncomfortable. If they stand too close they might know. They might hear the grinding and crunching noise that happens in our chest. They might hear the screaming terror that is always one breath away. They might know that yellow is sick and so we hide it under blue so that we can be green. They might know, that we don’t know if we are dangerous. We don’t know the lengths that we would go to reclaim our space. To reclaim our safety.
We play fearlessly in the dark because it’s safer than the light.
And yet. And yet we crave affection from others. Maybe. We think we crave it. We theoretically crave human warmth.
We are we today because we can’t be me. Not right now. We are not fortified. We are not incorporated. We are a thousand black and purple tendrils. We are feeling the you. The you because we need to keep the you at this length. Don’t touch us. We will destroy everything we must to keep our safety.
We did too much today. We saw too much, heard too many things. Too many people touched us. All the while our lungs were shredding in our chest. We always wonder how much of this is psychosomatic. Predictive. Our airways constrict and every inhale is razors, every exhale is flame. We know why. We can’t fix it right now. We say right now a lot.
Self-indulgent but there is no catharsis until someone else hears us. Until our words are read they stay inside of us. They kill us slowly, we don’t reincorporate, we disassociate. We disappear to hammered numbness. We die.