✓ | frozen

26. living room flow

Michael was close.

Too close—

Yet he was close enough to touch the darkest parts of me. And I hadn't found the time to run away and lock myself in a lovesick daydream—he was always there, loving me in the best and worst ways. I couldn't understand why he wanted someone who didn't even want themselves—to ignore my flaws and bathe in the passionate tides of intimacy—and move my doubts to the side as he pushed himself inside my mind.

For years, I fathomed a wicked fairytale; my heart rhythmically beat my ribs, and my soul sailed amongst the toxicity rumbling in the pit of my belly. It was as if a hauntingly beautiful melody captured me in dance and enslaved me to its rhythm.

My parents never provided me with an accurate depiction of love—so I stole the paintbrush and canvas to create my idea of what love could be. Eighteen years, I've walked into a warzone and grown accustomed to the silent nights raiding my thoughts—some days were too quiet, and others were too loud. No in-between.

My nerves shivered in the mornings, heightening in the afternoon—and later, discovering peace when everyone went to bed. Like my so-called home, my mind was a warzone; I battled overthinking, perfectionism, and constant failure. I didn't know how to accept myself for what I was—so I admired the person for who I was not.

I looked too soft.

I solicited an edgy appeal—to let people make their assumptions before I consumed them into my reality. Thus, my sensitivity and timid nature made a display; on the inside, I was a pioneer—a warrior with a broken heart searching for someone to invest in my darkness. I blamed my father—I always did! Esmond was there—here—then gone again.

Somehow, he squeezed into my life, assuming he wouldn't disturb the peace I harbored. But he did. My bedroom was my hiding place, a mix of happiness, sadness, excitement, and loneliness—a place to exhibit my imagination through creative endeavors. I picked up writing at thirteen and inspired my performance around fourteen—it was a process I enjoyed, something to escape the pain I swallowed the upcoming year.

January 14th, 1980—I almost lost my mother while I attempted to cry, uselessly sinking deeper within a basket of rage. His hands encased her neck before enveloping her in a needed hug. Laid on the floor, she lost her breath momentarily. My baby brother seemed startled, but he chose to befriend the monster. Meanwhile, my middle sister, Verda, appeared emotionless.

Though she appeared emotionless, I know it hurt her more than everyone else—she managed to detach herself from her feelings, focusing on the practical side of the situation. My sensitivity wouldn't let me forget that day; I loved too hard and fell too deep to let go. No matter how much I tried to disregard the pain, it only sharpened the wound—and left me no choice.

"Are you okay? You seem tense,"

Michael's gentleness flowed through my ears with ease as his thumb lovingly caressed my cheek. Those eyes—the intensity trailed down my throat and made its way to my back, sending shivers in unspeakable areas. He was understanding and a great listener—even when I lost all my senses, he gathered the pieces and put them in their rightful spots until they stayed seamlessly.

My insanity hadn't scared him away like everyone else—he uncovered the beauty lingering in my scars. And for that, I loved him! At least, I think I do—one might imagine the contentment in their core.

My gaze descended from his to my thighs. I dared not to face him in my dark moments—or drown him in my oceanic waves of tragedy. He was different. Michael silenced my sorrows, but they crept up on me in the worst times—a sweet dream and beautiful nightmare in the making.

Each kiss, touch, moan, and sigh were for him—sedated by the memory of what was, accompanied by the seduction of a new tomorrow. Although he appeared to have it all, I sensed his longing for meaning—someone to hold him at night, disguising his agony with the moonlight.

He was an angel— A memoir of possibilities.

And a man torn to shreds.

Once again—my words paralyzed in my throat, thrusting into a subtle stutter, "I— I'm f-fine,"

A weak smile brushed my saddened expression, not fully reaching my eyes—however, his stare told me that he wasn't buying my idea of contentment.

"I know you, 'Lena— something's bothering you, isn't it?"

'Why do you always see right through me?'

"Would you stop pressing me if I said yes?"

A giggle escaped his lips, and I figured it wasn't the end of our living room flow session.

It was only beginning.

(I based this piece on Jhené Aiko's  'living room flow' and the events from my life.)