I awake abruptly, completely.
My jaw aches, the grinding echo of my anxiety throbbing in the closeness of the room. I reach, knowing, and feel you gone.
I lie quiet in the smothering embrace of an empty room and feel hot acid tears etch their way down the softness of the skin at the outside corner of my eye, and snake, tickling into the curls at the side of my head.
My jaw aches, my teeth throbbing and sore. I realize that I don’t sleep really, that part of me, like a feral animal lies awake ever watchful, cautious, hiding behind the facade of rest, crouching in the shadows pooling at the back of a hidden crevasse, anticipating, waiting, for the next attack.
Instinct is like that.
Rationality can debate and argue certain realities, certain apparently inescapable fact; but instinct is from the reptile part of our brain, the ancient, dark primitive part; in its own way, uncontrollable because instinct removes itself from emotion and rationality and instead just reacts... and ultimately instinct bases its cautiousness on the realty of experience and thus, in the cloying embrace of darkness, I await with a despairing knowledge of the inevitability of your wrath.
At the end of it all, my rest is shallow, any true sleep escapes me. I sense your presence leaving and then the hot breath of your body when it returns.
I wonder where you wander in your midnight excursions. What thoughts and emotions cloud and roil in your mind and heart and where your fingers bring you in your angst and despair.
I think of G. and how we shake our heads in disbelief at what we perceive to be his delusions and yet, here in the lonely expanse of bed, I see that delusions are something each of us embraces. We dance, you and I, around the seething mass of rage and suppressed emotions that ooze like a putrid puddle of silent screams in the corner of the room. We wade through the noxious clinging excretions every single day and like G., smile and pretend the burning, acid tendrils of regret and accusation, of belief and knowledge, do not exist, surreptitiously, frantically, brushing off the sticky, cloying folds of its implacable reality.
I have never managed, despite all my struggles, to free my voice, which flutters beneath the pale column of my throat like a captive spirit. When the small trilling of the possibility of escape has sighed through my want, I have felt your fear batter it into a frightened retreat.
Like the flesh which smothers me in noxious folds of rejection, I feel the swelling blister of unspoken words roiling beneath the prison of your frantic deafness.
I think, like him, you hide behind a facade of normalcy and cling with desperate fingers to the splinter of fantastical fabrication you have created to survive.
My tongue, unbidden, seeks the hollow of the crumbling reality of my anxiety made flesh and I find it in myself to marvel at the complexity of the human spirit and its ability to weave lies into the fabric of reality as if the truths were real.