The Closet

I am so longing for physical contact, I can barely stand it. 

Her arms, feel long, and sinuous, like snakes or slender tree branches, feeling each breeze, responding to the warm caress of air. White hairs sparkle in the sunlight. She feels each root hidden under her skin, but tingling, answering, reaching out for more—more light, more sensation. She sees her hand fingers spread out— light between them making her skin transparent. Light is glowing through her. She feels like bits of dandelion fluff, floating in air— being carried beyond, beyond the garden. 

She focuses on her feet— grass between her toes, warm earth under the soles of her feet—places where the skin has hardened and then— the arch. So tender. So exposed. Blood flows up her calves. She flexes muscles there. Her knees feel like the tops of mountains, places where llamas roam and stretch their heads up to sniff the air, seeking each other. Her thighs throb— blood and nerves alive. 

And now her brain interrupts like a school bell, clanging. Her legs feel wooden, heavy. She tucks her toes back and pushes her feet— heavy, solid— into the shoes she had so wantonly abandoned. She ties the laces tight, painful. Her arms feel too exposed, like chastened children, her wrists hanging low. She shoves them into her pockets. Deep, hidden. Her eyes are covered now, her lids down.  Only her brain is alive. It repeats stories she has heard before. She hates these stories. She would jam her fists over her ears, but the stories are coming from deep inside— from the dark, dank closet in her head. Monsters hide there. They rattle iron hangers. They pull on scratchy skirts and rub them against her bare legs. They cannot be silenced. 

Her brain glows like a forbidden radio, its light piercing, its static loud,  insistent. Her eyelids become transmitters. The curves of her ears hold explosives. She is a danger to herself and others. She is a menace. 

She can crawl silently, carefully into the closet now— pull the door closed and let the dark invade her completely— feel the fog encircle her, pushing out her air, making her as small and inconsequential as a bug. 

Written on May 28, 2020