Your feed is full of poetry today.
Thoughts and feelings weave their way between selfies, travel guides, and requests for recommendations. You like one prose, heart another, and comment on as many posts you can stomach.
I’m here for you.
This is so powerful.
You have changed so much these past few years; even more these past few weeks.
There is understanding in your heart, compassion in your eyes, and a flicker of something hopeful in the way you’ve learned to listen.
Still, there is a space between where you end and the silent heaviness you can feel surrounding me.
It’s not that I need you to get it.
I hope you don’t.
I really hope you never feel the blackness creeping up your skin where it waits to find an entry; a scratch, a bruise, the smallest hurt that leads inside.
I hope you never hear deafening silence while you watch smiles widen around you, eyes lighting up with something you can’t identify as you try your hardest to quell the bitter bile puddling at the back of your throat as the pressure squeezes the inside of your brain and you realize the room you are in will be your tomb.
I hope you never see spots dancing in front of you, merging colors speeding through a tunnel narrowing faster than you can breathe while time stops and every movement is agonizingly slow and none of it makes any sense.
I hope you never have to weigh the pros and cons of little blue or pink or white or red or yellow or brown capsules containing your sanity.
I hope you never have to find the place in the hell you thought you left behind where it all went wrong so that you can spend the next five or 10 or 15 or 20 years trying to mend the broken pieces with a parade of people who walk in and out of your life while you wonder how you are sitting on yet another couch giving another basic background to be written on another file that will be another attempt to understand why that time everything stopped is following you through your life; tethering you in place.
I hope you never get it.
But I know you do.
Because I know that somewhere in the story that is you, something hit you harder than anything ever did before. And I know that when it did, you changed.
Maybe your thing didn’t have a name. Maybe it didn’t have a treatment plan. Maybe you didn’t even think it was a thing. But it reached deep inside and clung on to the walls of the cave where you hide the parts of you that hurt so bad they pulsate through you.
Your thing is there even when you don’t see it. Your thing is the thing that tells you all the things about me. Your thing is why you get uncomfortable when I rip my insides out for all the world to see. Your thing wants me to have my day and then quietly wait another year before I once again fill your feed with raw prose and heartwrenching tales of pain and suffering.
I get it.
I get it because the depth of your soul pulsating through you is as visible to me as the swirling demons melting off my mending skin. I get it because I can feel the vibrations of your hurt screaming out to me. I get it because you are a piece of me.
I don’t ask you to reveal yourself. I don’t demand the brave vulnerability that would shatter and rearrange your life. I don’t want you to change.
I get it.
This day is a day for you to get it just long enough for me to reconfirm why I continue to expose pieces of me.
I don’t do it for me, I do it for you.