There are lots of very secret things in my head right now. Lots of very thought-provoking particles of light and darkness. I looked back for a second and was surprised by how quickly I reached for a ball of blankets and crammed it in between my ribs. I was thinking about silence and voices, and where I am versus where I thought I was, where I think I should be. Where I was. And what if, by some chance, I asked myself a question because somebody else asked me if I would come and join in her blissful choreography of blatant, public liberation-after-truth? Here's the truth; listen up. My feet wouldn't move for them. Why should they? Their feet never moved for me. Not much, anyway. And how do I know that she can even admit to herself that she's free? Is she free? Am I?
How charming, how beautiful pain is.
Silence masquerades as a giant leap in a healing process and meanwhile chokes the living daylights out of the innocent. I'll be as loud as I want to on any possible surface of any conceivable texture. I am, or, she is still silenced nevertheless. There are things that sounded awfully familiar and things that reminded me of Becca-minus-five. Wait...six? Six soon. Six is too long. Six is a flat road stretching through Oklahoma. Six is a root canal, times a million. And yet, I'll write it on any wall anywhere in very permanent ink. Becca. September. 2004.
Tiffany. November. 2008.
Veronica. June. 2007.
Rachael. Stephanie. Alycia. Emily. Angela. Nettie. Leann. A small child.
The whole world painted a sky-meets-ocean teal. The color of a drop-off or the eyes of someone radiant. I have a paintbrush and I'm probably not afraid to use it. Just to save us. A single shade of blue just to save us.
Not that we can't save ourselves. We just get a little tired sometimes, a little weary.
So we keep painting our worlds with our secrets. Shhhh.