I was looking through this blog the other day because what else would I be doing when I have 400 pages of reading to get through?? Grad school, everyone. Anyway, I realized that there are some images that I have used and re-used in so many pieces of writing. I’m sure there’s some subconscious reason why this happens, but it definitely isn’t intentional. I cannot stand to repeat myself, and this is my attempt to retire these tired images, to get them out of my system.


You cried onto my hands and the salt from your tears dried in the spaces between my fingers. All I wanted to do was to fit myself in the spaces between your desperate gasps for breath and your sobs. I wished I was able to compress my love for you, to fold it onto itself so that it fits in the gaping hollow that sits in your chest where your love for yourself should be.

What void are you trying to fill? Please, tell me. You have become fixated with the idea of using yourself to compensate for an emptiness you are not equipped to replace. You are not adequate. Someone yawns, and instead of offering them a place to rest, you want your comfort to “fit itself” in the gaps you have imagined in that person’s spirit. You are not big enough.

I want to spend every morning running my uneven fingernails up and down the length of your back. Let the cracks in my nails catch on the smooth fabric of the responsibilities and goals you have laid out before yourself. Fingernails dipped in poison and lust trace the line of your cheekbones, testing the vulnerability of the soft skin just below your eyes. “Don’t do that,” you say. “ Why not? It’s dangerous,” I say.

I don’t blame you. It could be that the sight of slim brown hands ending in wine-polished fingertips has become so imprinted on your memory that you have now forgotten that you ever saw such a thing in the first place, to the point where you think you came up with the idea on your own. Those hands and nails have become the symbol for decadence and ruin. You will ruin him.

The weight of my care for you is pressing down on top of my head. You yourself might as well be sitting on top of my head, relishing the fact that you are flattening my will to be anything more than your support. I am carrying the guilt of making you weak so that I could hold you up on top of my head; you are weighing on me. My whole being is drooping; it is flat. Like the top of my head.

Surely, your neck must ache with all the weight you claim to carry on top of your head. Is your hair thinning in that spot? Is there now an indent in your skull? Who asked you to carry this burden? Who do you have to blame but yourself for taking it upon yourself to do so? You are not adequate. You will drop it.


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