There are too many things my head is trying to run through, the way we
go through file cabinets, I’m going through all of the things I want to
remember.
“You hold onto things too tightly,” you said to me.
And I do, I
want to dig my nails into the spine of everyone.
It’s too much
sometimes, like I’m carrying weights inside my chest where piles of
somethings, anythings, and everything's rest. I’m even tucking away all
of the nothings and things I wish I’d forget, hoarding memories until
they rot between my bones.
I use words to lay everything out neatly, to
revisit and let my lungs expand a little wider but now I can’t find the
right words to use, or maybe I am out of them. They are lost underneath
everything I no longer want to remember: the way his hands felt on me,
two heartbeats (mine and one I did not recognize) loud in my ears. And
your face, the way it flickers like a candle’s flame on the back of my
neck and how it never dies out.
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