The Child in Need

I’m restless.

I’m breathing.

I’m crying.

I’m restless.

I’m breathing.

I’m dying.

I’m restless.

Uncomfortable.

I think being alone…this alone…forces me to grieve. It forces me to dive into darkness, confront the fears, the irrevocable silence.

I’ve been staring at this white screen for hours, days, weeks…and I’ll begin to write something, type a letter, finish a word, start a sentence. But then I stop.

I can’t.

For my passion no longer brings joy, for words resist catharsis, repel a release.

I’ve been staring at this book for hours, days, weeks…and I’ll begin to read…read a word, scan a sentence. But then I stop.

I can’t.

For my passion no longer brings joy, adventure, for words resist catharsis, deny the pain.

So I wrap his sweater around my naked body, and inhale what is left of him. I drown in his scent, bury myself underneath covers, imagine arms engulfing my frame, circling my waist. With his chest against my own, his lips against my forehead, the child inside would scream, claw at my flesh, rip through my blood. I’m held and comforted, I’m kissed and loved. And the child needed that. The child needed him.

Oh, God, I needed You!

I need You!

I’ve shoved the gravel down into the Earth’s core. I’ve suspended torments until it’s replaced with another. I’ve gathered evidence and embedded my truths into my grave. I’ve locked the basement but continue to pile baggage at its doorstep.

And I stand, feet rigid and ragged, in the middle of this room with dark walls and white frames, and crumble in the silence. I fall face down into oblivion, and reach out with my arms held up high, head bowed.

“Where are You?!” I ask in darkness.

“I’m right here,” He whispers afar. “I’ve always been.”

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