The aftermath

It’s like this: where I await, anticipating the moment when all of me will burst open like a confetti-filled breakdown. These layers of heartache are built on my dreams and the sound of your voice. They form over and over until all I am made up of are these layers: your voice for someone else, his hands along my skin, the directions and places I try to fit into – a pulling into one hundred directions, every fear that has ever risen to the back of my throat. These tiny pieces come together, a bond that forms this pinata. And this is what I have made now – no longer skin and bone to intertwine me but instead grime and thirst and shifting. Each step is a feat to keep my porcelain self from splitting, piñatalike, a bursting. Habits, they form and reform and maybe one day they will make themselves into safety nets that can handle all these tornadoes and hurricanes. But these months, my nets lay weary and ragged and so my heart anticipates with each constricting: the second that I can no longer bare to take another step. This collapsing I can feel it at the tips of my fingers and along every vertebrae. It is here, it is moving, seeping into every muscle until I am consumed and the piñata girl will break open: a dissection on display: glitter, confetti, candy-insides and all.

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