Somedays I sit by the bed lost in a world I didn’t need to build. I pull my knees up and tuck them under my chin and it’s almost like I’m preparing for a good cry or sheltering myself from a drone attack. What was it about holding my legs close to my torso that made me breathe easy? There was no impending danger, no one was attacking me. And yet I kneel by the foot of my bed, leaning into the warm teak, and think of all the summers I’ve spent away from myself. And floods form in my eyes. And I guess that’s why I found it comforting and lowkey safe to sit in the fetal position, I was the disaster to shield from.
But all of this is a vastly romanticised version of one very honest and simplistic truth. I refused to open up and let in anyone who bothered to try and stitch me up. It was maybe, a defence mechanism. It was maybe, a craving for someone who bothers to stick around. It was, I know, a well framed alibi for all that I am. And I lied and I hid, I stowed away all my secrets. I cut off and I detached but I couldn’t escape the daylights.
From what I was running, I wish I could describe in a less than explicit way. But in horrors and amusement, when I found a lack of emotion, I knew something was amiss in the very floorboards of me. And I sit by the bed every now and then and jot down the steps that led me here. I deprive myself of shallow comforting and dry humor. So I sit by the bed and lowkey wallow in self deprecated writ, but when I stand up again, I tread a little lighter.