Fissures shift, the inner lifts, though I wish to keep it enclosed. Exposed to the elements becomes my soul. The tears rise and flow.
When the painquake subsides, there are less toxins inside. I suppose it is nature’s way of eliminating the accumulating waste, that which we bury in false deaths, that which we hide beneath the surface, a sort of protection and procrastination of that which we cannot bear in the moment to face.
Two-faced are we all. How are you? Good, thanks. Why do we ask that question in passing? Too often fake. How am I? Probably actually similar to how you are especially in the way that we guard the answer. Brief eye contact. Continue walking. If only we acknowledged anything. Hands on phones, hands of clocks. Bombs inside. Tick. Tock.
Fissures by nature are meant to be breaks. Down is mine. Again. No brakes.
Not a fall but an opening. An involuntary wound-seeping. Weeping.
My inner, risen now. What will you do with what’s come out?
Rain and storms, natural parts of the cycle; why do I let them sometimes level me? Perhaps it’s the blindsiding. What if I had a service to alert when my past in shallow puddles lurks? Tentacles too quickly encircle around my ankle– down the rabbit hole again. Yet even then, I know from experience, the falls are physically harmless. What’s another puncture in a wound unable to be seen? Though no bodily pain I’ve ever known makes me so heavily internally bleed out. Hemorrhaging soul. Still, it is inevitable: the weather changes back again every time. What’s left behind? A piece I bury, not of me, but a part of the repetition of unhealthy; one less tentacle grows back, unable to regenerate. One by one, I slay them, and the only way to pass through the portal is through those puddles, so I brace for the rain.