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[hobby-writer-tm]

The s-word; A thinly-veiled vent

S is a difficult topic to talk about. It makes people uncomfortable, squeamish even. I mean, you can’t just strike up a conversation with a friend on a random Tuesday about it… can you? 

Nevertheless, it’s been on my mind a lot lately, which is interesting as I never truly got close to it. I think my first exposure to it was through online media; a song or, probably a movie. Mom told me to look away from the screen so I did. It’s funny cause at the time I couldn’t even understand why someone might want that.

Later, after a few more songs and a few more movies with “s” scenes, the first real life exposure to it was with an older boy from my high-school. Well, I didn’t witness it but everyone heard about it. Of course, it was a big deal at the time, mostly due to his age.

I still think about him every now and then.

Later still, in my last year of high-school, it was with a close friend at the time. Well, almost. She was drunk and I was tired, so I just went to sleep. I woke up to some worrying messages on my phone - she sent me a barrage of messages, over the span of a couple hours, that I still have saved somewhere in our chat history. I was horrified at the possibility and frantically messaged her but she was'nt answering.

We met a week later and talked things through and we’re still friends.

After that it was mostly radio silence.

Still, the topic comes uplate at night, when the empty space in my bed feels heavy. Or, well, whenever I feel particularly lonely. I know that it’s not the answer to… any of my problems, but still.

[hobby-writer-tm]

My heart has more than 4 chambers. Atriums, Ventricles... and guest rooms. An infinite hotel where people come and go. But, they always leave a piece of them behind, and never on purpose.

I visit their rooms once in a while, carried by Mother Dream's gentle arms, to be reminded of why they earned their stay. Other times, I enter of my own volition. I pick up their pieces with utmost care. I study them, looking back fondly at when they first laughed at my joke, or when they shared a moment of vulnerability for me; a hug, seeking comfort, a smile, giving it.

I put down their piece exactly as I found it. I try to, anyway. Eventually, inevitably, every single one gets scratch marks. Some of the remnants are so weathered, I can barely recognize them. Surely, they must've belonged to someone special.

I hope one day to find a permanent resident.