dignified silence (pt2)

I crave the stability of a sort of dignified silence. And yet I can’t help but unravel from my very fingertips, drown in the tangled mess that is myself and scream so bitterly into the sinkhole in my chest. Channel all of that pain, and yet I grow so bored of the cups of lemonade that surround me. I’m not intelligent nor skilled enough to articulate the mental image that plagues me. For he speaks of a grass, when all I ever knew were trillions upon trillions of hands that emerged from the ground and frantically thrashed about in pursuit of my ankles while I fought them off and cried, while he stared at me from afar. And for a moment he was almost human, and for a moment I was oh so confused. I still have multiple moments throughout the day in which I think wow, he would really like this. And then for a moment, I’m human again. A good cup of coffee, a roast dinner, a meme or a song. Isn’t it sick how I still feel as if I know this spectre so well? He dare not change. A time capsule, immortalised and frozen in time as the boy that I knew and loved so, so fucking dearly. But that never was him. And it’s so odd revisiting every interaction, because that’s never how I remembered it?