Pushing

What is this thing inside us that keeps the love from coming out? This wall of silence and suffering and stoic fucking absolutism that stops us up like a cork in a bottle? While we’re pushing down on all our pain and despair and rage and frustration, sitting on it like a fretful traveler on a suitcase, we’ve trapped the love inside, too.

What is this thing inside that keeps us from speaking? This miserable gag of fear and pain and nagging fucking worry that smothers us like a pillow? While we’re holding our breath and clenching our jaw like some cliche out of a horror film, our screams are leaking out like blood – slow and sluggish and so dark.

Here we are, skirting the edge of something deep and black and elementally terrifying and you’re there, I know you are. But something inside us keeps us from calling out to each other. I’m here! Hold my hand – if you fall I’ll fall with you. I don’t know what that means. I wish I could catch you, but I can’t. But I’ll fall, too.

I’ll fall with you. If you let me.

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