watching the way life unfolds is a special kind of torment. i lie in bed for hours, separating myself from my body, watching from in front of myself as i make my body small.
there are certain truths that i stare at headlong, but can't bear to feel. i pull them from the crevices i’ve tucked them in for safe keeping, each time surprised by their weight in my hands.
i drop them. i fall out of myself. i watch my body curl itself as small as it can, watch my arms wrap around my legs, draw them tight to my chest. i cannot see my face, though
i’m looking right at it. i can’t stand the sound of my body crying, so i return myself to myself, make the noise stop. i choke on my sobs and they quiet. i feel my face flatten. my joints all ache from the strain. i keep my body tense just to see how long i can hold it.
i punish myself. i watch my life unfold.
i try to fold it back up make it small, containable.
i never manage. my hands feel useless.
i use them to cover my face.
cw for allusion to self harm; mention of blood, drowning
self infliction
i reach for what wounds me; sure i will be safe once i have it in my grasp.
i enjoy being proven wrong. my body hollows against time. my hand bleeds sap.
i cup my palm in order to hold myself together. i wait to be pulled apart. i swallow around the past.
i resist the urge to drown the future. i sit and i sit and i sit and i still do not understand the present.
my body is here, i can feel it, but that does not mean i am in it. do you know the terror of being bodiless and trapped?
i’m sure you do. how else would you have found me?
my tongue is caught on a lure and i am resisting despite the pain. blood in the water, if there is water to be had.
i am finding myself to be bait more often even than planned. these thoughts are unspeakable and yet here i am attempting.
i am tired of caging my voice in order to keep myself safe when i am never safe as a result. that doesn’t mean i will speak.
it is possible i will continue to cower. it is possible i will wrap the future up and save it for later,
hoping that later never comes. i spoil myself; i let myself spoil. i wrap my wound in cloth. i admire the stain.
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BEE LB is an array of letters, bound to impulse; they are a writer creating delicate connections. they have called any number of places home; currently, a single yellow wall in Michigan. they have been published in Badlung Press, Revolute Lit, Red Weather, and Catchwater Magazine, among others. their portfolio can be found at twinbrights.carrd.co
