Where I’m from, we don’t have atmosphere. I’m afraid I’ll die in a place so sunny and so hot that I’ll evaporate into nothing at all. My heart doesn’t sing in the sun. Instead, it smiles in the shadows, in the in-between places.
See, my mind doesn’t stop.
I awaken, in the quiet cloak of night, to cold sweats and cold feet, with demons breathing at the end of my bed. However real or unreal they might be makes no difference. They’re there in my mind and in my mind-room, and they never really leave. They live in the corners of my eye and the corners of my brain. I can’t escape them, and when the clock strikes 10, the world resets, and I reset with it. I can’t sleep knowing that they’re there and that they might not be.
Most days I feel like I’m late for a class I didn’t sign up for. I’m running rampant every moment, trying to figure out where I’m supposed to be. I don’t enjoy the waiting. I don’t enjoy the joy, not really. Boredom is kryptonite. Heartache is solace. Give me sadness over contentment any day. Please.
I don’t know what to do with happiness. I’m not set aflame by elation, and I can’t be cold. I’m cold all night long. I need to be on fire. I’m terrified of the dark embers I see all around me. Were they ever bright? Have they always been so frozen? Are they waiting or are they done?
When I look at them am I seeing my past or my future?... or both?
Am I broken?
I cry at words when others only blink. While others sleep in peace, I think. Why does a falling leaf make me weep? I dropped my baby brother as a baby once. Did someone drop me too and never tell anyone? Is the damage so deep science can’t see it? Is it bad that I don’t want to be fixed?
I think I’m two universes: the one you see from the outside, and the one I see from the inside. I think everyone is too/two. They say it’s impossible to journey to another universe, but I’ve seen it. I’ve looked into brown eyes and green eyes; I’ve watched a cosmic lover cross the divide, plummet into the world I look out of through fleshy film. When I stare long enough, I see the human clock, the beating in the blur.
I know what it feels like to be alone. I know what it feels like to be alone again.
The latter is the kind of cold you don’t come back from, not all the way at least. My edges are frost bitten, sharp and pointed. All I’m sure of is that each night I have to light a torch to make it through the dark until morning. I have to have something on fire, something that makes me feel, to help me make it to tomorrow.
I’m cold all night long. I don’t want to be cold, anymore.
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