Unfurling As She Breathes
(musicnotej , tinted_daylight)
she suffers from a different kind of pain.
frosted, icy, glinting: it means nothing to her,
but it is burrowed there, angry in her chest, swelling
and crashing with the throb of her heart, clenching
and unfurling as she breathes. there are no sharp
lines, not like regular pain, no angles to catch a finger on,
not like hurt. (and of course it means something to her, of course.)
sometimes she tries to touch it; wonders how it would
feel if she could. if her pain has a texture, if her pain
smells like the brittle crumbling of stone, if her pain is anything
at all. it is slippery, this thing inside her, for she can't always tell where
it ends and she begins; she was born, and her life has always been like this:
something curving through it in a color she can't see, bleak or vibrant or neither,
something that feels so wrong but is so much a part of her that she wonders if
perhaps everything she's ever taken to be right is really nothing at all.
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