Firework Rain

Published | Mace and Crown 2021

https://maceandcrown.com/1473/magazines/mace-crown-spring-2021/

Anxiety feels like a bucket of bees that has just been kicked by a kangaroo for the sheer pleasure of making the butterflies angry.

My top ten worst experiences are (not) comprised into a list of things that can make me interesting in a conversation when meeting new people because I hate meeting new people.

Eyes are a lie hidden behind emotions and emotions are the only thing that people can see in me.

And yes, I miss the way his lips looked as they sucked on my breasts, but mostly because I forgot that there was a life outside this bedroom.

And also every boy wants to marry me.

Anxiety feels like firework rain but not in the good kind that makes you excited on the night he tells you he loves you, but rather on the night he tells you it’s over.

Rape feels like penetration of more than a dick.

Almost like an idea that was torn away violently, also like when my skin was when it hit the concrete after jumping off the skateboard because two busted teeth are better than death and especially when feeling every stitch makes you feel more alive.

Because death sounds like more of a comfort but there are also so many obligations

And when I say obligations I mean that my life can never be over because there is nothing to look forward to before or after.

And when I say after I mean after I finish speaking and you stop listening and there is that moment of breathless air between the thought and the sound and the sound is the only thing that cannot be heard because being heard is silence.

Silence is the form of an unanswered question and also a complicated answer that results in the “Yes, my brother has special needs”, but you didn’t need to know that.

I try to explain life but instead I am not good at words and mangledness comes out on broken platters of honey-dipped ecstasy and instead I digress...

I write because I think that my words have something to say and at least the extra ten seconds to read them is better, but reading them is not an act that I can partake in so instead I cower in fear as you react to anxiety dipped in honey-filled ecstasy and firework rain.

Estrangement is cold but not as cold as the lifeless hand of dead relatives.

Family is told in lies of the past and also where did they all go? Did they disappear? Because a ten year old doesn’t understand the meaning between death and estrangement but a sixteen year old can make the decision to say goodbye, but only after growing up.

But let’s be honest, I grew up at the age of 3 when brother and 10 when death and 14 when cancer and death and 16 when estranged 17 when teeth and 18 when sex and 19 when rape and 19 when second year of college turned into a mental minefield

And did I mention that I turn 20 in a couple of weeks? I grew up the day it all started and yet I was still immature thirty seconds ago when I told you about the kangaroo.

Anxiety is like a kangaroo. Anxiety is like my favorite animal bearing down on my chest when I cannot breathe because an elephant weighs 6 tons and a lion is like the roaring of my thoughts and the only one that can understand it better is the silence.

Demons are my friends and they hide under my bed because emotions are the suffocating water that fills the room until I am drowning.

Rape feels like penetration of more than a dick.

And my demons know what to say because they are the one driving this train.

This train is barrelling down at 90 miles an hour but all I can do is admire how the wheels sound along the tracks.

But busted teeth do not define me and my brother is not a mashup of my sins and my family is only estranged because they chose to be that way, why would someone choose to be that way?

When my aunt doesn’t call for Thanksgiving but posts that my blonde is more like her I start to wonder if my abstinence is a sin.

But just because I do not partake or intoxicate does not make me different. I am just sane. Saner than someone who needs it, but also I do need it because the thoughts are racing down the ever chasing storm within my brain. Is this Willy Wonka’s chocolate train of thought traveling down the boat’s display?

No, this is merely firework rain.