words don't come that easy.

x

06.01.22
00:00

eleven days ago, a therapy session talks me through comforting my inner child. we sit on the floor of my high school bedroom and I hold my hands around hers. hair a box-dyed maroon, blue eyes capped in eyeliner, her hands shake. I tell her all the love I have for her surviving, if she could look at all the words we've written since, the late nights of happy disbelief, how gorgeous and full we've made this life. I squeeze our hands closer and tell her everything we need is right here. today, she comes to comfort me. stronger hands, shorter hair than she'd imagine, but it turns out adult grief is still as blubbering and red-faced as she'd recognize. she scrolls through my music and raises the volume, remember this song? how we'd shout every word out of rolled-down windows or past the bedroom door so the whole house could hear, I'm not okay, I'm not o-fucking-kay. she asks me to scream, to stomp, to raise both middle fingers and sing louder. and when it hurts too much again, we lean over the kitchen island and she wraps her hands around mine. she tells me there's not a future self right now to come and tell us both that this gets better. in the meantime, she squeezes our hands close. she utters back to me just the same, with wisdom in every word, everything we need is right here.

/// i made a friend on my way to work today, said he really needed some words of affirmation so i told him he's one of the goodest boi. seemed very satisfied.