Do they know what they're doing to you when they tear you up inside? Do they even care? Unthinking, unfailingly. Do they know that memories bleed inside of me? Unable to clot, unable to stop the torrent of emotion that coagulates, inflates, unable to placate, initiate…a thrombus. Do they think we live in prisms of disengaged reaction? Uncoordinated…unconnected. Untouchable…just observed. Do they think transgression stays on skin, doesn’t move…doesn’t impact? As if all we had of each other was our surfaces. Maybe that is why, they stay physical, cowards, cowering, dithering in the towering immensity of internality.
But actions penetrate deeper than epidermis…rippling, spiraling into flesh. And everything internalized screams with ferocity, your actions creating a velocity that massacres the membranes of memories, rips them open…ready to attack, to ransack the beautiful order of rapturous remembrance. The heaving heart can only cause a tear to stream down the cheek...it is misunderstood because it is hidden, forbidden to loiter on sleeves. Tearing up, tearing me down, the oceans inside need prey to drown.