We hold ourselves quietly. We say things like, "You're killing me" as we bare our teeth in gestures of friendship and laughter. We say, "I'm dying over here" as we hug. Holding our secrets close, holding our counsel. Hold inward that which makes us who we are. Hiding in shame, privacy, or wantonness a colloquial teratoma of epic proportions. Just like this song, the best song, croons... we live like we're dying to breathe.
It's all happening again. Just like the last time but not the same. It's not love, not contentment, not home, something bubbling deep within. Something is coming, something again. Only this time I can't see it. I see nothing but this moment. I feel it close, on the verge of what? Is it birth? The contractions of this teratoma demanding space? An explosion, a trickle? Maybe just like J. Spaceman says, I'm probably just hungry. Or have to pee.
Image by Paolo Reversi
It's all happening again. Just like the last time but not the same. It's not love, not contentment, not home, something bubbling deep within. Something is coming, something again. Only this time I can't see it. I see nothing but this moment. I feel it close, on the verge of what? Is it birth? The contractions of this teratoma demanding space? An explosion, a trickle? Maybe just like J. Spaceman says, I'm probably just hungry. Or have to pee.
Image by Paolo Reversi
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