I feel so much it is like glowflies are making babies inside me beneath the blanket of my thoughts that I started crocheting when I was born, the one that doesn’t match anymore but makes more and more sense as I go along: the clashing colours, the fabrics that shouldn’t be friends, the words that serve no purpose except to sound pretty together. When I feel like this, when I think it’s my heart beating like a thousand trains instead of the wings of all those glowflies, I feel like I could cry forever and that would be alright.
Inside I don’t stop. I go on and on, I do, swimming in the lake of the milky way hidden way way deep inside of me. Inside I am infinite. I know what’s there but I don’t have enough words yet. I never will. Sometimes I feel the rainbows behind my eyes, the gap between each eyelash, the pump of every drop sliding around my veins. Doctors tell me I am red inside, red and pink and purple. The colours of love. The colours of pain. But I know better. I know that we haven’t invented the words for the colours I am. I know that when my throat feels too tight, it’s the universe inside me sending up bouquets of balloons with thoughts inside. There are fairies sewing letters into words and throwing them upwards like freeing doves. This sadness feels like honey and I love that there are velvet banners welcoming me in.
Inside I can take off my shoes and lie on carpets that never itch. I can count the stitches I made after every disappointment. I drink from fountains of pearls and hang up my hang-ups like tinsel because I know who I am tonight and tonight I am enough. Tonight my loneliness is a relief because I know how much I have to give. I know what swimming in me can do to you, that with me you can never drown because together it will just feel like floating underwater. I know that I am filled with lighthouses and secret post-its and dirty jokes in church. I know that my passion is machine ice-cream, swirling smooth and pure and corrugated and topped with the syrup of my temper and the sprinkles of my quirks. I know that I am enough. And knowing that I am enough without having someone to give it all to is a different kind of loneliness than letting him convince me that I am not enough.
Boy Hiatus? FAIL!
Though, technically, I’m not really talking about a boy, am I?
Boy Hiatus? STILL ON, BABY.