The Small Joys Are Holy. I Look Into Her Eyes, A Green More Pure Than Any Earthly Hue On This Planet.

The small joys are holy. I look into her eyes, a green more pure than any earthly hue on this planet. I feel her breath against my cheek—warmth so tender it brings me to tears. I feel her arm brush against mine, skin on skin, wound on wound. These glimpses of her fuel my fire. I would die out if it weren’t for her.

When I wanted to go away, it was not because I wanted to die. I hoped that the gritty dirt would take me back warmly, happily house my tired bones. I wanted death to greet me with a smile. I wanted someone to want me. I wanted someone to hold me. I was so worn down, my bones could hardly hold up the weight of my body. All I wanted was to rest in a place where I was known. I wanted to descend back to where I came from. I wanted to see if the earth remembered who I was before the world got to me. If the earth remembered, there was a chance at getting her back.

I spread the salt around my body. A perfect circle, cloak of protection, a shield. I protect myself from myself. There is a monster somewhere. There is a monster here and it is me. I am a monster. Or there is a monster in me. I am not sure which is worse. I am scared of what the monster will do. I am scared of what it will do to me. I am scared of what is to come.

My mind knows that you left, but my body does not. Each night, my body prepares itself for you. All of my blood goes to my arms, warming them to be wrapped around your body. I wrap them around my waist. I do not tell my body that the skin it is touching is not yours. When my heart is flushed with excitement as I walk down the corridor, preparing to see your face, I do not tell the growling thing that you will not be around the corner. I lock eyes with a stranger and I tell my body that the moment happened. My mind spares my body. In my body, we are still in love.

My mind is like a constant stream of “I can’t live. I can’t live. I can’t live. I can’t.” followed by the pleading “you must live. you must live. you must.”

I think my room is as lonely as I am. I feel it in the air when I walk through the door. The sort of unbearable, deep melancholy (the same kind that I fear people feel when they are around me). I smell the rot in the walls— the dirty, grotesque mold making it’s home there. It is always dark, even with the light on. Dark, and cold. I am describing my room. I am afraid that I am also describing myself.