Sometimes, my heart beats so fiercely I have to hold my hand over my chest to prevent the whole thing from exploding in some violent bloody mess. I think it’s feeding something, like a vampire tree readying itself to burst through my skin, taking root by crawling through my body like cracks in concrete, reaching toward my fingertips in ribbons of gnarled wood, bending and arching like arthritic fingers stretching after an extended grip.
I know I should be dreaming in butterfly wings and streams of bubbles reflecting the sun in patchy rainbow squares, in kittens yawning or the tickle of furry creatures nuzzling my neck, but it doesn’t feel quite grounded when I compare something with depth to something that rides the wind so effortlessly, or something with strength to something so sweet and vulnerable.
It’s not that it’s painful (although I’m not sure would go so far to say that it’s painless considering how hard I fight for words only to find that they come when I don’t want them, like razored lightning: violent but fleeting), but it doesn’t feel like open meadows and fluffy clouds. It feels like the satisfying final breath of a wild exploration that ends in dirty sweat and blood-stained skin, probably because years of wrangled thoughts and caged emotions have turned my love into something like a steep rock-face soaked in equatorial sun, and we’re left gripping with our toes, laughing at the elements for thinking they have a chance.
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