In A Different Life

Sometimes there aren’t word for how I feel. There are colors, but not enough words for the colors either. I always imagine that in a little while I will be alright, that I will learn to look out to the sea and wonder what comes next rather than turn over the stones of what I left. I imagine in a little bit I’ll be someone else.

I have a memory of sitting on the kitchen floor and telling you there is something wrong with me. Maybe my insides knew it then in a way I am starting to know now, trace minerals of copper building up against my better nature. Turning me against myself, against you, against everything I thought to be true.

In a different life, I live on an island and I am less worried about everything, and I string sea shells on fishing line and hang them around the edge of my home. I eat greens from the garden with table salt and only cry when I cut myself. In a different life, I didn’t leave you.

I buy hydrangeas and put them in the north-facing window to window bring in new ideas. I put the dream catcher in the west-facing windows to stop the things that scare me. And in I sleep in the east corner of the house. And in the mornings, I pray south. Because this isn’t a different life.


 

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