Hi. It’s been a while. When I wake up tomorrow, there shall you be.
So. You’re finally here. Sort of. I’ve been waiting for you, anticipating you. Steeling myself for you. So, now you’re here. Almost.
(But you're so here, I can taste you. I've been tasting you the whole day. You taste like bile.)
And I’m stalling by hyper-objectifying the fact that you’re almost here instead of actually confronting how I feel about you coming around again.
(There's a storm now, did you know? How about that.)
Right. Feelings.
Well, I’m glad that you’re finally here. I think I can allow myself to breathe a little more freely once you pass through. As you do, allow me to use this inchoate bravado of mine to stick my tongue out at you.
I’m still here, see. I’m still alive. I didn’t die. For better or for worse, I didn’t die.
(I lived, damn you. I lived.)
I thought I would be more conciliatory, as in: "Let’s bury the hatchet. From henceforth, you shall be like any other day."
But not yet. Almost. (So almost, I can taste it. It tastes like the air after the rain and unwashed cherries.)
Right now, along with my tongue, I shall show you my wrists. The only marks on them are tattoos that celebrate the fact that I lived. The reasons I do my best to keep doing this whole living thing. (Thanks to you, my body now holds a forever-tapestry of victories.)
And you stand there, silently. Neither friendly nor menacing. You’re just standing there, waiting to be defined by whatever state of healing I may be in. And I hate that you're so cavalier about this whole thing. I've been struggling not to be defined by you and you're just there. So...undefined.
Tell you what, let’s just nod, acknowledge each other’s presence, and let’s try to get on with tomorrow's today, shall we?
What’s that? Yes, thank you. Happy Other Birthday, indeed. Thank you. Coming from you, that means a lot. I appreciate it. (Sincerely.)
Till next year. Perhaps, by then, I shall have been able to define you.
Kindest (kind now, not belligerent) regards,
K
Right now, along with my tongue, I shall show you my wrists. The only marks on them are tattoos that celebrate the fact that I lived. The reasons I do my best to keep doing this whole living thing. (Thanks to you, my body now holds a forever-tapestry of victories.)
And you stand there, silently. Neither friendly nor menacing. You’re just standing there, waiting to be defined by whatever state of healing I may be in. And I hate that you're so cavalier about this whole thing. I've been struggling not to be defined by you and you're just there. So...undefined.
Tell you what, let’s just nod, acknowledge each other’s presence, and let’s try to get on with tomorrow's today, shall we?
What’s that? Yes, thank you. Happy Other Birthday, indeed. Thank you. Coming from you, that means a lot. I appreciate it. (Sincerely.)
Till next year. Perhaps, by then, I shall have been able to define you.
Kindest (kind now, not belligerent) regards,
K
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