the sea anemone in me

If you ask me how I'm doing, how things are going, I'd probably say okay. Not too bad. So-so.

If I'm being completely honest, I'm terrified. My heart is not mending, the pain is at a standstill but it's bought a one-way ticket for the deepest, most remote parts of my heart, where I can no longer visit. The things that used to live there were so delicate and I'm afraid they've been devastated in the shuffle. I can no longer find them anywhere in me. I've been planning and coaxing myself to try and weasel my way in to where they might be, but in the end I am more destitute when nothing happens. I have been on the cusp, of writing, of creating, of opening up my insides and letting those things fly out. I thought they were speaking to me, calling to me like omens, like dreams, giving me instructions, directions; X marks the spot. Find us, we need you, need to be found, we're fading and you must bring us back.

That's not even the only thing. As many things as I can build up, twice as many crumble behind my back, as soon as I turn to face another direction everything falls to pieces. As I gather the pieces and coat them in glue and lay them out like a puzzle and tear at my eyes to see the fault lines the lights will go out. And if I light a candle the glue has dried. And if I coat them again in glue I find the pieces have rearranged themselves and some have run off.