There's no word for it

the feeling of every single thing

There are things I need to say that I cannot say, feelings without words, moments I want to make a cloak of and envelop you with. I want to play every instrument because letters, words, sentences, don’t even begin to scratch the surface. I want every photo I’ve ever taken on matte paper with ink splatters and gold leaf. I want to sing. I want to sweat on heavy piano keys and spin the dials and slide the sliders on synthesizers and I want to mix together all these things. I want lavender haze and a glowing orange streetlamp at dusk and an almost half moon and my heart is exploding with words but they are not enough. I need to make music. I need rhythm and flow and syncopation and I need to kiss you with tongue. I need your hands everywhere all at once. 

I need to weep because how do I show you how beautiful it is to feel every single thing?

A cold man once told me I was either crying or I was angry and maybe it was true. I was only ever feeling his clenched fists. I was afraid. And then I felt the ache that burned me like lightning struck straight through my belly. And I unraveled. Life was a haze of every thing, every man, every substance, every touch, every emotion he held in that greedy hand. I noticed I had lungs. And I started breathing. I started wondering. I started listening to the saddest songs, every day, every hour, every minute, pain from eardrums to toetips. Pain of every woman I’d ever wished I’d been, every moment I was quiet and should’ve screamed, all the times I wished for violence. The way I wanted to make his eyes bleed. But I didn’t. 

How would it feel to stop suffocating?

The first time I breathed all the way into my belly was the first time we fucked, and the moment I knew I could really love you. And now, everything feels like vibraphones and trip hop and photographs with fucked up corners from being touched so much and red stained lips and worn in sweatshirts and black mini skirts. 

The plants are so ALIVE, like their arms are reaching to touch me. Pine needles flutter and laugh above my shoulders. And the moon, when I look her way it feels like I’m a million miles in the air, silvery and dancing. 

There’s not a moment I can’t feel your hands between my shoulderblades and everything makes me feel like crying. And I am… well, there’s no word for it. 

I wish I could survive on creative juice alone (some days I think I can), but alas, I must eat. Support my aliveness by becoming a paid subscriber, or throwing me a few bucks for coffee.