These Precious Things

These precious things, let them bleed. I hadn't heard of Tori Amos at that time, but that's what I was thinking. I don't know where that nihilism came from. But if I had to guess?

From feeling invisible. From reporting and being told he was a moneymaker - nothing was going to happen. But, you know - she was there for me. She got cancer. She might be dead now. More feelings to unpack but less than you might think. 

These precious things, let them bleed.

If a girl were that sentence, it was me in that ballroom. 

Me in the storage closet. 

Me trying to put my cards away.

Me drowning.

Me afraid to extend an arm for who I knew was waiting to take it. Pretty girl. Sensitive girl. Alone in a car in an alley at night girl. Me me me. 

Let them bleed.

I don't even remember the first time you kissed me. 

You'd think I would - it was such a razor up my arm.

Such a neat and fragrant opening of the skin to play in the veins below.

These precious things - every precious knife I had, let them bleed you. May they. That's what I was trying to do every time I emptied myself into you and in every way. You had no idea. You thought you were just enjoying acts of giving. You had no idea I was trying to cut you - or cut myself and drown you in all my blood. I was too slight. Too ineffectual. I'm the only one who felt anything.

This came out when I gave my body a voice inside Body Writers, my somatic writing and healing circle. Learn to give your body a voice here.