Cataclysm
Disbelief is what hits me first.
The sheer, utter weight of his confession; of his mother’s confession.
The staggering magnitude of being cherished.
It doesn’t seep into your bones like a soft, knowing gradual half-glass-of-water.
It hits you like a bullet train.
Cataclysmic, impertinent, scarring.
Nausea follows.
The drum at the back of my head plays a throbbing beat I can’t outrun.
It’s so catchy.
The holes in my pupils play hide and seek with the burn of my palms.
It’s so dire.
The weight of my body sways in desperation to stay in sync with the glint of my rings.
It’s so familiar.
The words are an attempt to slip into the invisibility of my armour.
It makes me feel;
Denial. Dissent. Dispute.
It makes me crave;
Imitation. Simulation. Replication.
All while I am solely trying to remember,
how it feels to have a heartbeat.
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