I am at home here among the green. When sweet birds sing, I know the song. I find familiarity in the slow way things grow. I look up at the trees, reaching branches and feel as though I have bark of my own. The petals of the brilliant flowers remind me we are friends. Nestled into flickering patches of sun. Dreaming of wearing moss for clothes.
She keeps songs locked away in boxes like secrets. She will take them out like postcards to help her remember the feeling of a different time, a different person by her side. She likes the one that makes her eyes close to see the lights. She smiles at the one that makes her stand up on tiptoes, the one that helps her forget she doesn’t know what to do with her hands.
The tune will carry her.
Like it did the times when voices broke like a heart. When instruments’ strings would snap and hurt.
‘Incorporate music’ But how when there’s no structure to the cacophony you’ve conceived? No cadence, imperfect or otherwise, to resolve the constant clashing, the bashing, of keys in your head that won’t silence.
Is this violent dissonance tuneful to those who aren’t the instrument?
I'm ready for the rain, ready for the pain it brings, ready for the cleansing, the healing, the arrival of feelings I've been inviting for months... I've been avoiding for months... I've been fighting for months. Because I believed that numb was better but now I crave the harsher weather. Now I need the hurricanes, need them so desperately I can hardly separate me from the want. The savage desire to light a fire I'm unwilling to put out engulfs me. I want to set myself aflame, but blazes lead to blame and body counts. So instead, I'll await the rain. Best to just let it wash away.
She was not forewarned that with fresh starts come broken hearts and rebirth is never pretty nor pain free. To escape the misery it was necessary to first feel the burn, only it was never meant to hurt quite like this.
Hoping to kiss an old friend goodbye to the tune of a lullaby you've long out grown, but instead having them trace your skin with knives and ice as you stand blindly believing, facing their shadow and mistaking lies for eyes as yours water.
It's okay you didn't see the weapon. It's okay your hands shook as you ripped it from between ribs then stitched your chest shut. It's not okay they walked away without harsh words, deserved, hurtled at their heels.
But know your freedom is battle born, and strength comes to those who know their own worth and do not waver.