I wish there was someone to kiss my bruises. They could start at the one on the arch of my foot. Then the one behind my knee (faded, from Wednesday). And then follow the dappled trail of purple and green that colours my inner thigh. They could kiss the one on my hip (I bumped the table). And then find the small one just where my wrist bends towards itself. A soft kiss for each one.
I wish there was someone who’d count them. Who’d touch them and smooth them. Who’d croon lullabies to soothe them. But there’s not. So instead I’ll string lines in the ether. And sing songs of relief to myself. And watch the moon turn the night to water. While nightjars fight in the dark.
*On the 7th of January, I put my house on the market.
On the 18th I was offered full asking price, on condition I’m out by next weekend. (Which, make no mistake, is awesome news.)
In the past few days, I’ve packed and moved over 30 boxes. Boxes mostly filled with books. Which means heavy boxes. And bruises.
Last night, after moving the first 19, in a series of trips, to their new storage unit, I lay in the bath. And traced the pattern of them. Literally dozens. I couldn’t help wondering if this is how it’ll be. Me, capable, alone. Covered in bruises no one will really see.
On the upside. House hunting.
And in the interests of sanity, I’m going to try mostly faking enthusiasm for the next couple of weeks. Perhaps life will imitate art. And I can stop boring the pants off everyone with my finest emo impersonations.