they lay on the rug, curled up, with their head resting on an unraveled mess of turquoise yarn. it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s in your head, it’s going to end, these thoughts will dissipate, you will not feel so intensely tomorrow, just fall asleep, it’s going to go away.
the last time they coaxed themself into believing these words was witnessed by a glittery night. purple strobe lights, silver-gray smoke, the taste of pineapple. pink snow, soft clinks. they lay there, stroking the smooth iridescent surface of their lighter, wishing the colors were less explosive. they shut their eyes in protest but the kaleidoscope spiraling behind their eyelids gave them no respite. as their mouth went dry, washing away the bitter taste, their tongue was repossessed by a tingling like tv static. dark thoughts swirled within, and they succumbed to the erratic thump of their heart, the burnt air in their lungs. it’s okay. it’s going to go away. as the morning lured the moon down, the air lost its shimmer, and the hazy memories of the previous night forged a cold sharp promise to fill their absence. never again.
but this was different. this was reality, not recreation. real life could not leave their system; it was here to stay. so how could they know whether it was true? how could they believe it would be okay?
their walls were covered in yellowing pages of spiky handwriting, soft words that seemed to pour out of their fingers back when they were in love; no fresh ink, as if there was nothing pretty in their brain, now that they weren’t. they should have known that falling came with breaking, that reaching the peak meant that the only way forward was downhill. but this is not a shattered love story.
that was a long time ago. and long before, time began to build a fortress around their heart, strong, formidable, and in times past, impenetrable. the locks are rusty now, and rust is desirable, because rust means old, and old is familiar. rust means easy to break. so there was hope, sweet-talking its way through the cracks, transforming the little fractures into tendrils of gold and lacquer that zigzag across their heart. beauty is born from destruction. our universe is proof of that. the breaking is not something to hide.
so there is hope, for even their nightmares are stained with colors, and those encounters are not reason to fear the hues. for their ears still find melodies in the ringing. for while the words might escape them, their fingers are still so strong to sew them back together every time they fall apart. and it is with that knowledge that they can whisper with certainty. go to sleep. it’s going to be okay.
Constant Caprice 