All of the babies they can feel the world. That’s why they cry.
This is the season to unravel; the season I feel sick in my cells. A snake shedding in reverse, the core of me sloughing away until emptied, I am ready to be filled again. These days like a fever. These days like a dream. There are days, and days, and days. So many and too few and the crushing weight of apathy blooming to clog the cogs of the entire mechanism. In my throat, silence folded into itself like hands clasped in prayer. I can hear my heartbeat no matter where I go.
Awake at 3am, I remember lying in my childhood bed held hostage by the pang of my bones expanding into their own full potential. The deep dull ache like tectonic plates shifting under my skin. How my mother held my hand in the dark, whispered Hush baby, it’s just growing pains. I imagined my femurs stretching their sleepy fists into the socket of my hips, digging their feet into the knobby hinge of each knee.
Now instead of growth plates, I’m carrying heartbreaks beneath my skin. In the dark holding my own hand whispering Hush baby, it’s just growing pains. I’m still learning to embrace the agony of becoming. I’m still learning to understand aches that only time and patience can soothe away. Consider this a reminder to myself, a way of holding my own hand on the darkest nights when my only company is streetlights. Hush baby, hush baby, hush baby.
It's going to be ok.
This is the season to unravel; the season I feel sick in my cells. A snake shedding in reverse, the core of me sloughing away until emptied, I am ready to be filled again. These days like a fever. These days like a dream. There are days, and days, and days. So many and too few and the crushing weight of apathy blooming to clog the cogs of the entire mechanism. In my throat, silence folded into itself like hands clasped in prayer. I can hear my heartbeat no matter where I go.
Awake at 3am, I remember lying in my childhood bed held hostage by the pang of my bones expanding into their own full potential. The deep dull ache like tectonic plates shifting under my skin. How my mother held my hand in the dark, whispered Hush baby, it’s just growing pains. I imagined my femurs stretching their sleepy fists into the socket of my hips, digging their feet into the knobby hinge of each knee.
Now instead of growth plates, I’m carrying heartbreaks beneath my skin. In the dark holding my own hand whispering Hush baby, it’s just growing pains. I’m still learning to embrace the agony of becoming. I’m still learning to understand aches that only time and patience can soothe away. Consider this a reminder to myself, a way of holding my own hand on the darkest nights when my only company is streetlights. Hush baby, hush baby, hush baby.
It's going to be ok.
-b
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