can i come over? i have been thinking of the ways my body holds knowledge. what is learning on a cellular level. did i learn how to be lonely, all those years ago, or was it taught to me.
i am still shocked by how much hair comes out in the shower. i only know my body in comparison; watch myself the way i’ve been taught to do. is this the motion i make for happy? is this the reaction for i’m-not-ready? is this okay, am i okay, is this happening?
the heart is, after all, a machine capable of learning. i find myself picking up the phone to text you even when i have nothing to say. when i say “i am feeling okay”, it is because the shape of what i am feeling has no name. i haven’t been able to write for days. everything feels a little bit to the left - and gracious, but not quite sane.
can i come over? i can’t stop thinking about what you said - cold hands are slow. i drop things and catch them without thinking, which only matters when i drop a knife. i bite my tongue rather than get into a fight. i flinch when he moves too quickly, i hide my histories, i worry obsessively. my body knows the memory of unloving so well that i could chip a tooth on the tundra of it. im saying i love like cold hands. i love like slow.
but i am learning warm, you know.
