God created sex, exercise and cleaning for girls like me mourning the loss of men like you. When my limbs are moving, when I’m full on someone else, you don’t live inside me, banging on my ribcage. Without them, your fists hit my solar-plexus echoing like drums. Your fingertips slide down my sternum ringing like bells.
I move with music and men and moments, all strung together by your not being there. In motion, time rides a continuum. No one second feels so different from the next. No one second is so different from the next.
I tap dance, hard metal on soft floors, left then right, back then forth, up, higher than humans should jump propelled by change and lonesomeness. I kiss, hard and stupid and mean, arms over my head, legs wrapped tight, squeezing the breath out of someone else. I scrub and sweep, hoping the bleach and its pretty lemon smells will seep into my veins, hoping the cleanliness will permeate me.
I move angry, fast, without thinking. I don’t stay still. Not even when I’m sleeping.
When I stop moving, there's a stabbing pain, a violent silence. With the quiet, I feel glued to the concrete of some new place I’ve never been. Its some city I don’t recognize, somewhere I can’t stay, not for a moment. It is so sparse and I don’t see anything but grey. When I breathe my body is filled with cold, hard air. The coldness freezes so deep that it stops my heart, it puts my lungs in an ice suitcase, it buries my legs in a heavy snowdrift. When I feel the coldness coming, I move again, kicking and screaming my way home. I hurt myself, manic and unhinged, to be warm again.
Can you feel my heart beating from a million miles away?
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