Untouched

“I feel too little and I think too much” - Winter, PVRIS

I had the strangest dream, the other night.
I saw a dark-haired woman in a luscious garden, the moon her only witness as she picked a bouquet of plump red roses.
I noticed her hands were all bloody, but she didn’t seem to mind. I wanted to tell her to be more cautious with the thorns, but my voice died in my throat when I realized she’d made a mess out of her face too.
In her delicate hands weren’t flowers at all : she was making a feast out of beating hearts. The bush was full of them and the hole in her chest told me she had none.
No matter how many she devoured, her hunger never seemed satisfied and the cavity between her breasts never closed.
She was making herself sick with the stolen life forces, feeling emptier with all these feelings that were never hers to begin with, than she had in the simple absence of her own.

Within the lines of old diaries remain traces of a passionate child I can hardly recognize. The foreign words barely do justice to the bright light that seemed nestled between my ribs, keeping me warm even in the bleakest seasons.
All that’s left of this near phantasmal self is smoke stinging my eyes.
Maybe I was born with a feral and starving heart, and there’s only unforgiving time to blame for turning everything tepid, but my accusing finger easily finds my own reflection; I forgot to burn and instead just burned out.

These days my skin feels like marble under a distant sun, yet I want to want aggressively
I want the kind of hunger that grows dangerous teeth and sharp claws
To open my mouth and welcome gentle poison, its burn scrubbing indifference from my insides
To speak of visceral things
To be deliciously consumed by them
To stop feeling so untouched
But I search all the wrong places, craven and timid in my own desires

I’ve sanitized my existence and risk nothing, claiming it’s a reasonable sacrifice made for inner peacefulness, but secretly loathing the heaviness that comes with such a sensible, rational mind.
I drag a lifetime of underestimating myself, pretending I’m a ridiculously fragile house of cards that can’t take the slightest sentimental breeze.
My sensitivity is hard to the touch now, an excuse in the shape of a shield.
What a fool I was, thinking I could control the fickle creatures that are my emotions : ”Not now, heart. Dry your tears, shove them down and summon them at will when the timing’s right.”
It never is, and the well had dried. No wonder I feel as good as dead sometimes, when I’m the one slowly killing myself.

Buy me a drink, you flirt ! If you do, I’ll write you a little something in the theme of your choice to thank you (canva might be involved. also the bigger the tip, the longer the personalized text) :

Just a second longer and then you’ll be free : I recently started a second publication called 𝔏𝔢 ℭ𝔞𝔣𝔢 𝔡𝔢𝔰 ℜ𝔬𝔰𝔢𝔰 𝔢𝔱 𝔡𝔢𝔰 ℜ𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔰. The plan is to use that page for group projects, so if you want to participate to a future collaboration with other brilliant, creative minds, or if you just want to read what will come out of this, please consider subscribing !

Thanks for reading me,

Marie.