A clothesline on a airy summer afternoon.

The pop, crackle and dizzying flash of the light bulb. Silent wonderment. The sip of champagne that goes to my head. The blush that tinted my freckled cheeks. The heat beneath my skin when wild curiosity brushes against it. I discovered what it meant to feel big, to see the world in shades of brilliant blues, purples and blinding white.

The Milky Way is often referred to as a “cannibal” galaxy, because during formation it swallowed up smaller galaxies. And that’s exactly what happened—you swallowed me whole.

I don’t blame you; I think I was drawn to destruction from the beginning. When I was a kid I loved to break open geodes. I loved to watch it fall apart and the beautiful parts spill out. I was momentarily fascinated as I stared at the gaping wound I created. I would discard it almost immediately.

We woke up with tambourines and drum sticks poking our backs. We climbed atop rooftops to be closer to the stars. We walked down dark alleyways at dawn sipping on cheap champagne we swiped from the debaucherous evening we reveled in. We drank coffee and 101 proof for lunch. I woke up to vomit on the pillowcase next to my head. You laughed. We were reckless. Hopeful. Manic. The chaos and collision of two people that shifts the atmosphere. A fever. An electric charge burning between our barely touching thighs. I lived for those moments.

My insides began to suffer. Thunderwood wrapped tightly around my rib-cage. I watered it with nonsensical reasoning. Each time it clung tighter, reaching for vital organs. Thorns tore at my flesh and the sting of peroxide was a welcome reprieve. I did unspeakable things—but so did you. I was selfish—but so were you. We stole from each other each time You undid a button, each time I walked into your life. We drank cheap white wine out of the bottle and slept on blood stained sheets. Lifeless rosemary forgotten in our garden.

All your pretty words drained from me. Ink stains on your paper. Somewhere in between the words and melody, I would desperately hope that I would finally understand it all. The in-between bits that I have been trying to piece together. It couldn’t have all been for naught, right?

Fleeting moments. You are nostalgia. Nothing more. Nothing less.

I have tried to justify every decision I made to no avail. I store all your pretty words with the rest of my memories that I can’t quite determine the authenticity of.

I regret nothing, I tell myself. It’s just a white lie, I tell myself. In order to understand myself, I destroyed myself. I read that last part somewhere. Maybe, after all this time, I needed you to build my fortress. To breathe fire.

~ 

Author: Amanda Shaune

Editor: Sarah Kolkka

Image: Kenosha Amano // Flickr