It’s actually scary
Knock. Knock. Knock.
There’s nothing frightening about this. I keep telling myself. Over and over and over and over until the words just become reality. There’s nothing scary. Words don’t seem to do as I say today. Words have this inexpressible power of blowing up the whole world. Turning it upside down. Doing as they wish. Making a revolution. It’s not scary, I repeat, but it is, in reality, fucking scary.
I hear my own heart beating, knocking on my ribcage. My ribcage is a door that my heart desperately, hopelessly needs to be opened. How fucking amazing is it, I hear my own heart beating. She’s talking to me. She wants to escape, she wants to go out. She wants to wear red lipstick and a leather jacket. She wants to be in a smiths’ song, or just one of their songs. Yet, she’s trapped here, in me. And I don’t seem to be somewhat interesting to her. My ribcage is a door my heart is begging to open.
There’s nothing terrifying, I’m whispering, about the way my lungs are full. About the way I can’t breathe sometimes. Like, When I’ve been running, or when I catch a cold, or when I see you. My lungs are asking for more and more of that fresh air. I can’t even seem to count how many breaths I take. It’s not petrifying, how my lungs are full. Full of feelings. Not scary at all, how I absolutely, always feel things with my lungs. How I fall in love with my two lungs, how I hate with them, oh how fucking much they hurt when I get hurt. The most bizarre things in me, these 2 assholes, are things that I feel most connected with.
There’s nothing horrifying about how my hands act like they are two grown up, independent people. How they run on keyboard, without me knowing it, how they just clench when I feel things. There’s nothing scary about how I breathe with my hands, how I exist. I look at them and I almost gasp. I’ve been with them for almost 19 years now and do i really know them? I don’t even know what their next move is going to be. Are they going to slap someone in the face or are they going to carefully sail in someone’s hair and spend a couple of minutes there? I don’t even know and in a blink of an eye, they’re touching my lips, and what the heck, I start thinking about how scary it really is. How scary can a human’s mind be. I have never known mine. I will never truly get to know her. Filled with so many things, so many places. My brain is so full of colorful maps but I manage to get lost every fucking time.
There’s nothing scary, I say to myself in the mirror, and I keep looking at her in the eyes, and then I get scared.
Have I ever observed these eyes? Have I noticed what they do, when I get excited? I wonder if someone has ever found a home in my eyes. And I wonder did I manage to burn that one down, too? These lips are mine, too, and I know that sometimes they burn. And my theeth sometimes like to bite it when I think.
And I look at my scars, and freckles, moles, curves, stretch marks, and I listen to the knocks again, and I slowly come to realization that it may be scary, but it’s so freaking amazing and beautiful, too. I listen to beat of my own body and I love how she’s telling me things. How she’s talking to me. How there’s a story behind every scar, how people always tried to count my freckles, how many stars lived in my eyes when I was passionately talking about something. How my body moves when I breathe in and breathe out. How my lungs start to hurt even when I feel slightest things, how my stomach tightens and heart beats faster when lungs tell them to. How my fists clench and then slowly let go. How my leg keeps moving and moving. How I suddenly smile I did not even tell my lips anything. Would you listen to your body, too?
Knock. Knock. Knock.
It’s amazingly horrifying.