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Falling apart

I’ve put my feet on the wrong way.

This happens sometimes, though not often. Not as often as I get the hands wrong- it’s easier to make these mistakes than you’d think, and harder to solve them.

Some days it’s all I do: I place my hands and feet and nose and lips and tongue and everything else on the floor. I try not to make mistakes. I fail.

Trust me when I say a foot on the wrong leg looks odd only after you’ve fit it. Trust me, I’m trying.

Sometimes I wonder whether I might get stuck like this forever, with my feet on the wrong way, dying a slow, painful death as I try and fail to hobble somewhere other than here.

Anywhere.

Anywhere other than here, here, trapped, closed in- a thin, familiar thread curling into my spine, clinging onto it, coiling deep and red into my ribs, snaking in, squeezing. I br-br-breathe and b-br-breathe and b-b-breathe before it unwinds itself.

Settle. Easy. One part at a time.

The thread coils more often than I’d admit. After the first time I could have sworn I felt something stay there, unleaving. The wisp of the end curling to the edge of a kidney, coiling slow and lazy. 

I tried shaking it out but that didn’t go so well.

So now it’s here to stay and things get lonely down here anyway so I don’t see why I shouldn’t share. I fixed the leg. I don’t know why I bother, it isn’t like I have places to be or things to do. I wake up in parts anyway. But I know these are dead-ended thoughts so I don’t think them. Usually. On days like this, it’s harder. 

I like to get the eyes on last. Take my time, feel and sense and hear myself first.

Breath warm on the dip above my upper lip. A slight bend in before it jumps, and then nothing. Pulse dance on the inside of my thigh. Two steps in, a step out. Tongue curl, lash touch, finger twitch.

A moment there, right before I get the eyes on.

Right before the pop, the settling in, the furious blinking.

Some sense of colour before the colour. The endless colour. The loss of it. Colour of loss. The endlessness. Furious blinking. A slip in the thread, holding me close-

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Photo by Tony Sebastian on Unsplash

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