send me a ‘✉’ for five times my muse didn’t text yours, and one time they did.
the first time is raining and dark and the curtains are drawn and you are not sure if that is better or worse. the first time is waking up sobbing because you are ill, because your nightmares show you things that are not true. and things that are. the first time is not the first time you have had this nightmare, but it is the first time you did not wake up before you died.
the first time your hands are reaching for your phone before you are aware of it, the first time the message is typed { misspellings and bad autocorrects throughout } before you are aware of what it is you want to say. the first time is moment from hitting SEND and letting him protect you like he always does, he always does, and pausing —
the first time is pressing delete and curling into yourself and not breathing all alone, falling apart all alone, because you will not burden him, you will not burden him, you will not burden him.
the second time is still night, the curtains are not drawn, and it is not raining any longer. the stars are out, and you are braving the risk of looking outside you window at night { you often see, or think you see, masked men standing and watching you when you do, or creatures flitting in and out of shadows } to observe them. he told you to, but you had been rocking back and forth on your bed in the midst of a panic attack and hadn’t seen the text until hours later. the second time it’s beautiful — you want to text him thank you, tell him that you saw, but you glance at the time and see that it is 3:47 AM and decide against it. he is hopefully asleep.
the second time, it is starlight and loneliness, but he was thinking about you at midnight and that means it is not so bad.
the third time it is daylight and you are frantic because his text is spilling with misspellings and he confesses to horrors you dare not mention, and you know this is from either drunkenness or depression or worse, and you are pulling on your coat and reaching for your keys even as you struggle to find the words to help him. because you are both falling apart, because you are always falling apart and rebuilding each other. the third time is too afraid, too afraid to call him but your fingers are shaking too much to text him so you call him anyway.
you are learning to be brave for him.
“chris,” you say as soon as you answer, and he is breathing too hard and you think you hear him weeping, and you say, “chris, i’m coming. chris, i’m coming. it’s gonna be okay. stay with me, chris.’
and he says, ‘i will, i will, hurry.’
the fourth time it is evening, and you are alone in your apartment { you have an apartment, now, and he does, too, and it is strange to be at yours alone because you spend so much time at each other’s } and something is biting into your skin. it has dull, dull teeth but they are making progress, slowly, at cutting you open at the wrists, and it is breaking your bones just to feel them crack between its jaws. the fourth time you are staring at the orange bottle in your fingers, and you are already so drunk, and you think that you would like to swallow all the little itty bitty pills because they are supposed to make you feel better and maybe if you take enough you will not be able to feel at all anymore.
the fourth time, you think you should tell him that you are sorry for what you do not know you are about to do, but you cannot make the words come and your fingers are too slow, and you cannot make anything you say contain all the bits and pieces of your gratefulness and your guilt. the fourth time the white light from your phone hurts your eyes and you do not realize you are crying until you taste salt.
the fourth time there is a knock at the door a moment before you can send your haphazard apology, sprawling and spiderwebbing like your mental state, and you drop the phone in your surprise and cannot remember how to speak to say go away, or come in, or save me, save me, save me. after another moment, another knock, he enters anyway { because he has a key, because of course he does } and he see the brown bottles on the table, the orange one within your hands, and he is so slow and gentle and quiet when he tugs the pills from your hands and gathers you into his arms.
the fourth time he whispers “you’re okay, you’re okay, i love you,” while you sob into his body and tell him that you wish you were dead.
the fifth time, it is morning and the sun is winding between the curtains you no longer fear opening up, and his body is not where it belongs beside you in your bed { your bed. your bed, your home. it’s so strange, to share your life with him, but at the same time it feels like you were always built to do this }. weird. you sit up, rubbing at your eyes as you glance around the room. it is your day off — and as you glance at your nightstand, you find that your phone is prominently displaying one unread text message.
morning beautiful — sam called, needed some help with some tech stuff for work, and it was pretty urgent, so i just headed out. i’ll be back in a few hours. love you.
the fifth time, he calls you beautiful, he says he loves you. these are not rare things for him to tell you, but you never stop the fluttering in your chest when he says it. you hold the phone to you chest, grinning with reddened cheeks and unrestrained delight because you are waking up in the bed you share with a message from the man you love and even though you are broken pieces all forced back together, you feel CONTENT.
the fifth time, you do not text him back because when he gets home, you throw your arms around him and hold him tight and tell him that you love him, you kiss his lips and pull him back to your room, and that’s far better.
the sixth time you are sitting in the sunset with a book in your hands and your dog, content, resting on the ground at your feet. the sixth time you feel almost whole, and you want to feel his hand in your own The sun is warm but the breeze is cool, and you fish out your phone with the smell of fall in your hair and find yourself unafraid of the cold.
[ sms; the love of my life ] hey, you should come join me at the park.
and the sixth time, you know he will say yes, and flowers bloom behind your ribcage where there used to be guilt and tar and fear. because you love him, and he loves you, and you know this to be true. what a strange concept, to know that you are loved.
when lips press to the top of your head, you do not even have to look to know who it is they belong to. and you smile, you smile, and you are so, so happy.
germansingergirl
prguitarman
stormborns
blakekathryn
pixelskylines
kaledo-art
