Binds of Writing

Binds of Writing

What if you and I got in a convertible and drove away?

What if I kissed you on the cheek when you were driving? What if you were distracted and someone from behind hit us? What if we spun out?

What if you died?

I close my eyes and spread my hands over the still-wet ink. I can't stop this anymore. I can't stop the words. The hills I make turn into mountains until I'm writhing under their weight, screaming with pain, my voice echoing forever off the air and the sky.

I can't stop those words from coming.

The pen is an easy escape. It burns through my mind and cuts open my skin with its scalding blade. My blood comes from my wrists, decorating those horrible white pages, sending it on and on through the layers until everything quietly, peacefully goes dark...

No.

The pen is an easy escape. It builds towers. Beautiful towers. Words upon breathing words, making me alive again. The pen is a mystery, a channel, something to keep me from constantly calling your number and crying to you in hysterics because I just can't keep up anymore. I love to be near you because you make me feel like I really matter, but won't you get tired of it? And so the words come; an artificial respiration, a protection, a guarantee that you'll never ever ever stop loving me.

The words I have written smear on the pages, and my fingertips are black from the ink. My what-ifs are growing. I can't starve them. I can't destroy them. They crawl back up my arms and into my mind, freezing me, torturing me, killing me.

No. No, they don't.

I hate words. Words are a distraction. A misconception. An excuse. Words build shadows and keep me away because I am afraid to share. Words have a seductive beauty, whispering their superiority to actions, to pictures, to me. Words are who I am. They told me so.

No, I'm not.

If I couldn't use my words anymore, would you still know I loved you? Words keep me from talking to you. They press down on my shoulders, driving nails through my throat, sewing my lips shut in an eternally painless manner. The torment is mental, emotional — never physical. But oh, so beautiful... So beautiful...

What do I want to talk about?

I want to talk about my words.

I want to talk about my eyes, which burn with days gone without tears. I want to talk about my hurt, the hurt that spreads so evenly I can't place the origin. I want to talk about loneliness, the dull aching anguish that removes my hunger and creates the most pleasant feeling of nausea.

I want to talk about my words.

The sheets of paper blur for a moment before my eyes, but I blink away the tears. I have no reason to cry. Why do I cry? Crying is the difficult escape, the escape that shatters invulnerability and crushes confidence.

Flames enjoy my words, they thrive on my words, they are addicted to my words. They devour any page I let within their reach. My paralyzingly frightening what-ifs disappear into a charred freedom that sits warm and pulsing beyond my redemption.

But they never leave.

In my mind, I take hold of your hand and keep it tight, a wordless apology for my failures, for my stumblings, for my words. I am ashamed of my words. I want to be able to speak without using my words. So many people don't understand.

Do you?

Sleep is relief only because the endless task of translating is temporarily ceased. It's simple language now, visual language, my native tongue. Everyone speaks words to communicate, and so I learn. I keep learning. I learn for you.

The clock strikes three, all is dark and silent, cold and empty. The fire has eaten my lettering and is now relaxed. Sleep drags me into dreams, and I see you and for once I can tell you exactly what I want to without my metaphors and seemingly unrelated thoughts. The what-ifs disappear into a cloaking blackness, leaving me safe and secure and thoughtless.

Thoughtless.