It wrapped around me. My arms were bare beneath the sheet music and were starting to feel a warm vibration tantalizing the pores in my skin. I held the papers tightly against my chest, till little cuts embedded themselves in my fists, and all I could do was hold on tighter.
The desolation in his voice was enough to shake the notes from my hands, but wouldn’t lessen the grip I had on his heart. I wanted to believe in the words his voice was straining to push through cancerous breaths. I wanted to believe that I wasn’t so weak and thin. I wanted to feel heavy with the hope and satisfaction. And what hurt the worst wasn’t the truth, it was the blunt action of accepting this life.
There were so many times that I refused. I’ve wanted to regress into myself and to feel competent, like I used to be. There is a stubborn strength that grows when you punish yourself. There first is the fear, the hesitation resting somewhere under the blade and above the wrist that tells you to be softer. Then there is the resolve, the excitement and the suspense. The final act and the peace, tinged with a warmer shade of self loathing.
And to feel cold meant to feel nothing, and to feel nothing meant to be just the same. There came a night when I was laying alone in the nothingness, my hands shoved between my thighs and my body curled on its side, and I realized that I was something. Maybe not something good, but I had a substance that I was not taking for granted, or anything at that. And to feel something meant enough to me, just enough to hold on a little tighter.
And wrapping myself in his words, humming along to the waking lullaby, I become something. I became something weak and lighter, but something of what little value could add into his words.
