redial

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Feel the rush of my blood
I’m seventeen again
I am not scared of death
I’ve got dreams again
It’s just me and the curve of the valley

Noah Kahan, The View Between Villages

The wind keeps howling, dragging the laden branches of the old olive trees to the ground. As it huffs and puffs, it mops away the rain streaks, further west, farther and farther still. It clears the air, but it doesn’t clear my head.

I am without words, in a way I’m not comfortable with. I outgrew this place, and I’ve got nothing left to say. I picked at every scab, and it didn’t heal any scars. I thought if I redo them, they would heal properly, but I only dug deeper until I got lost in that pit. The pit in my stomach turns into a bunch of clinical terms I can ignore for a while.

A minute from home but I feel so far from it
The death of my dog, the stretch of my skin
It’s all washin’ over me, I’m angry again

Noah Kahan, The View Between Villages

Time is a loop you can get lost in. A room full of mirrors and the reflections familiar, but just not right. She’s a bit younger in each one. By the time I call her “I”, I’d be able to look ahead at last.

I am a loop that falls in on itself. It doesn’t make me uncomfortable. It’s a familiar freefall. But it does leave broken bones in its wake. And I spent my whole life trying to realign them. And I tattoo the stitches to make the lines look seamless. Now I have something that should look like something, but it just barely doesn’t. An old rag doll sewn together with mismatched threads, and I invented a whole new patchwork aesthetic.

The stitches are the mirrors again, and I’m trying to shelve that past. But I only have an unlovely reminder that doesn’t disturb me. It only makes me restless.

Long exhale. If only I could cough out this heaviness in my chest.

The wind keeps howling.