Saint Valentine Probably Had a Temper

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.

Crushed Velvet Insulation

My minds feels as though it's wrapped in crushed velvet, a fabric I've always associated with a discreet form of violence because when I touch it the wrong way, go against the grain, each thread attacks my finger like a dull arrow shot from too far away.  I'm of the opinion that a boa constrictor could do damaging things with crushed velvet if it found a way to make its threads sharp.

The layer allows my thoughts to float and mute themselves: my words are slow and my motions diverted. I have to work just a little harder than usual to do usual things. My alarms are in pairs, my coffees in trios, my spills anticipated, my knees permanently bruised. Yet, nothing is out of place. My hair and teeth are brushed, my face and sheets washed, my coffee and bed made. The bills are paid, the week is planned, checks signed, groceries bought, schedule adhered to. The routine is set, and I am not off-track, off-beat or off-kilter. But Ms. Clavel with her French accent and her habit is tearing through my veins, fretting about nothing concrete, muttering her catch-phrase.

You're right, madame, something is not right. My mind is not held hostage by unfinished thoughts. They seem to be, quite obstinately, jointly hosting tea parties, getting comfortable with staying somewhere before complete.

Dear brain, things are about to get wildly uncomfortable.