8-16

My head is filled with songs. Words twine in and out of my brain and my tongue, and I forget if they’re my own or if I’ve pulled them from a melody.

It comes and goes in waves.

I feel the words, but they’re not my own. Are they? I’ve made them mine. I’ve claimed them. Can I do that? Words are not honored like they once were. They’re possessed and stolen and recycled at whim.

I want to live in the world of golden shimmering champagne, gin with lime, where words are given the courtesy they deserve and not picked and discarded and claimed with fingers that have no right to touch them.

You’re teaching me to live without it.

The songs are keeping me awake. I want to share them with you. I want to ignore you. I want to cleanse my brain so I can sleep.

We did it wrong, you and me.

I can see that. I saw it. I didn’t know how to fix it. I thought I would knew, when I hit this point in my life, how to handle love. I had waited long enough. Surely instincts would kick in.

They didn’t. Panic and anxiety and fear kicked in. Overwhelming emotions that made my head swim dizzily. Everything was so much. I loved you so much my eyes spun. I hated you so much my stomach churned.

I am not a woman of middle grounds. How can I be rational when my reactions are visceral. How can I stay calm when just knowing you speak to her--more than me? More gently? More carefully? More sweetly? How can I know when you won’t tell me?--makes my throat close up with bile. How can I feign simple contentment when you kiss me and my entire being rises up? 

I can’t exist in a world where I can hide these things. People walk by me in their masks every day, but I can’t hide my flush, I can’t hide that when you looked at me with warmth my blood moved fast. I can’t disguise that when you speak to me sharply, I feel black and faint and I want to lie down comatose.

I am too much, I am too much.

I feel myself in there, stronger, though. You won’t speak to me, and it’s giving her the rest she needed. I’ll be back. I’ll put my mask on. Ice queen. Queen of swords. Frosty objectivity sharp and cold.

I’ll keep my softness for those that need it. 

The songs remind me of who I was, before I got lost in you. I pull their words around me, a cushion, lulling me back to sleep.

I’ll reign again soon.