This week my breath has been music, filling my rooms with its force. It is too much to listen to any more. This week my footsteps have been raindrops falling, too many to count. Water on glass, too hard. Too much water in waves, bringing me ashore. I don’t want to be ashore. This week everything has tried too hard to fill me with magic, and none of it has worked. Too many stars and fireworks too loud for no occasion at all. None of it will work for me. I don’t want any of it to work for me. This week it has been winter all too soon. There have been mudslides and forces of nature in the streets of my town. There has been frost in the rain and my voice, among it all, has been the metal in the world. I don’t want to be the metal, I feel too faint, I don‘t feel formed. This week the real things have been made of absence and there have been holes. A few things have been delicate. Most of them have vanished. Nothing is terribly immutable. Everything is clustered around my eye like lights. I can see them, and I really don’t want to. I think this week I should have been sleeping when I haven’t been sleeping at all. |
| Two Weeks Before Your Wedding |
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| by Chloe Meakin |