the space above my ears.

All the Things

In the beginning, the infection was like cutting your hands up in a raspberry bush.

It was the spent allowance.

It was the single silhouette in the center of the tracks.

It was somewhere along the way.

Somewhere in between the phone calls and the meltdowns and the bowl of macaroni with a candle sticking out of it.

Somewhere past the pine tree on the top of the hill in the schoolyard.

Somewhere when the snowy footprints begin to fade.

The tired eyes close and the whole flag is up.

And thus, the rapture begins.

Right as the sun explodes and our eyes turn to ash in their sockets, I can see it again.

The tall staircase backstage of the school auditorium where I first spoke to you.

The empty English classroom when I saw you again.

The song that was playing on the radio when you realized I was just the right amount of malleable.

The playground where I fell for it.

All these places are purgatory.

The longing and the suffering balance each other, cancelling out feeling until you feel nothing at all.

In purgatory, I get lost in paragraphs.

My head is hollow.

In purgatory, the niceties are forced and I always feel like I'm just the last on the list in a slightly different color.

In purgatory, I get to keep you on the pedestal and you get to keep throwing milk on me.

We all believe we're satisfied in the end.

Until the tide smooths over the patterns in the sand.

Until the rain washes away all the wet paint.

Until our chests don't move up and down anymore.

I am not oblivious to the irony.

I know that rivals to lovers always felt wrong before you, but the way your name is sewed into my skin in a smattering of scarlet letters is so deliciously bittersweet.

With every word spoken, I give away another part of myself.

A piece for them to pin to their lapels so they can flaunt their charity.

A piece of me to keep in their wallets and hold up smugly when somebody doubts the things I did.

A sad story at the dinner table.

Our fingers skim the spines of all the books as we walk through this library of legends whose names we've forgotten.

I've been painting the same picture since the dawn of time and it still doesn't feel right.

It's still too cold and far too cramped.

The lights are too dark and the darks are too light.

Let's rewrite the script so I can't feel pain, put the band-aids on my knees and I'll get back up.

I was here all along, darling.

I am still waiting.