Everything must have weight
It must be in my nature.
Everything must have weight.
Movies must make me ugly cry, make me want to tear my chest in two and then take a picture for my Instagram story.
Clementines must break away in thirds—they get a quarter and I get a half. The pulp must thread itself between my teeth, stitch rows of wire until my smile is tinted orange.
Midnight rainfalls must flood my despair with a soundtrack to match, punctuate itself with sirens stretched into question marks.
Vased flowers must be a sign of life—climbing over each other for a stroke of sunlight, then collapsing into itself when the light no longer feels worth it.
Novembers must varnish all my shadows, darken and brighten all at once.
Birthdays must spread frosting over scars, make them look good enough to eat and then fester cavities in all the bones that ache.
Music must induce nausea, feed me myself, spoonful by spoonful until the only substance in my body is mine.
Silence must be thick, palpable. Breath gelatinous and heavy as it cycles in, out, and in again. A million words must be said, then swallowed.
Words must ebb and flow with emotion, seep with it until soggy and dripping. If the words are dry I’ve done something wrong. I must allow them to drench me until I, too, am soggy and dripping.
Where I’ve been tinted orange
Daily: double cream brie and Trader Joe’s French onion soup, drinking screwdrivers in trashy dive bars with friends
Media: Without You Without Them by boygenius, Emerson by Annie DiRusso, Pool by Samia (always)
Books: Bunny by Mona Awad
Here’s hoping I, too, have weight,
Helena