Chest pains

Sadness leaks into my ribcage, causing me to catch my breath. The kind that doesn't disappear after a night's sleep or a great kiss. You still wake up with a teeny tiny sense of dread. Just a hint. It gnaws.

I still giggle. I laugh loudly, causing people to turn. I make faces. It stretches for hours, days or weeks. "How can I make it stay forever?" I wonder aloud.

I flicker. My face falters, you catch the shadow. My reassuring smile does not reach to my eyes.

I am put together. Professional. Aged. Mature. Hire-able. Date-able. Marry-able. I show all the marks of having gone through the training. Every hair is in its place. My lashes are mascara-ed, I am five minutes early. I lack vocal fillers and speak confidently. My handshake is firm. I have memorized the material. I ace the tests you have created. The hoops you make me jump. The ice you put under my heels. I jump the trapdoor that wreaks of doom. I reach the top of the stairs before they turn to a plunging slope. I run away from the unknown terror in my dreams.

But sometimes I fall. Glass shatters somewhere.

I pull my legs up towards my chest. I yank the covers towards me, so that I don't have to depend on you. I don't have to share. I can't share. I hate sharing. I scream. I throw my fists. I can't breathe.

I walk to the edge of the shore, and put me toes in the ice cold water. The sand is rocky. I pull my sweater close and nostalgia takes over. I remember when colors were primary and doors were open. Paths were wide and clearly marked. Bonds were direct and strong. I had companions, and no empty Friday nights to fill. Our songs were simple.

I dream about weddings to faceless men, the guests wearing raincoats. I dream about plays and shows where I never learned my lines. I try to explain what is happening, but the words will not come. The other actors look at me with even stares, watching me falter. They do not show worry in their eyes, only waiting. The audience jeers. Someone in the corner holds flowers, waiting for me anyway. Someone in the very back believes in me.

I misspell things, my makeup is smudged. I am two minutes late. My watch ticks too loudly. A bead of sweat forms on my forehead. I give my speech. I can't remember what I am wearing. How did I get here? Did I drive? Did someone take me? I can't remember. They can all read my thoughts; I can tell. It's the big secret no one ever tells me.

I look up at the stars, and wish I could see them better. I know they are so much clearer outside of the city, beyond the mess of humanity. I imagine the clouds parting around the stars, piercing little holes in the sky. Unfamiliar music plays softly from old fashioned speakers, bright against the indigo sky. It sounds foreign to me. Someone is next to me, and he puts an arm around me. My shoulders relax. He reaches over and pulls something out of my pocket, something I hadn't even known was there. It is small and heavy, and I feel as though a burden has been lifted when it is gone. Without hesitation, he puts it in his own pocket. I worry suddenly for the man, and look him in the eyes for the first time. His face is not what I recognize to be beautiful, but I suddenly feel like maybe it should be. That this, this is beauty, and everything else I have known is false. I glance back at the stars, and they seem clearer.

I wake up far before the rest of the world. My pillows are scattered across the room, I am uncovered.

My chest aches. I can't remember why.