Ribs

“Maybe I’ll just nap for a while”, I whisper to myself after countless failed attempts at not bursting into tears as soon as I opened my laptop.

I slowly crawl into bed, and I close my eyes. Behind them, a canvas unfurls painting vivid imagery of loss, longing, unrequited love...the nightmarish vision that I might really end up alone. The panic sets in and my eyelids snap open, hot tears frothing from my tear ducts.

Sometimes when I need guidance, I put Spotify on shuffle and see what pops up. A digital oracle of sorts. Ironically, there it was. Ribs by Lorde. The line, "It feels so scary getting old” blaring in my earbuds. A symphony of fear of the future juxtaposing nostalgia for the past.

Where was I last happy? I ask myself. When?

A whirlwind of colors - childish pink, adolescent yellow, teenage purple, young adult orange - swirl around my head. The scent of cotton candy, my mom's tears, my brother's rage, the saliva of my first girlfriend, the perfume of my last landlord, all engulf my inflamed nostrils.

Emotions erupt from my starving body that I’m so scared will fail me one day just like I’ve failed it.

“Just a little while longer,” I tell it. But I am not sure which hope this encompasses. Becoming the past or having a future.

----

I feel so small. I feel so afraid. I feel so fearful. I want to wrap myself in these linens until the panic that crept in finds its way out or maybe the maid of suffering comes to collect her delicacies. I know there is a lesson in this fear somewhere, but until I figure it out, I want to make a nest and never crawl out of it.