Blue Space

Digital art depicting a spiraling staircase

My heart and my house are shrinking at a phenomenal rate. Parts of you—your eyeglasses, pack of cigs, flannel and lube—were assembled on my nightstand. The doctors have no diagnosis about doors that won’t budge, cedar-like floors lit yellow by nightlight. It used to sadden you to know I’ve a history of bumping into dark things. 


As for the shriveling of my heart, the doctors monitor it: weakly, a chair leg scratches the floor in an auditorium. The doctors claim the heart will chafe; the body will attempt to reabsorb its mistakes. My grandfather showed me love once; he placed a praying mantis against my childhood. Men have always corded me to wild things. A buckskin horse is a testament when it leans into another one of its kind. 


Maybe I’m mixing my metaphors. I’m trying to say, sometimes loving oneself is not reciprocal. I can touch but never hold myself. Even if I choose love, the end product will always be one. 


“Will it hurt?” I ask the doctors. Believing that the sky was real, a bird pings against glass. I pity its reaching for vegetation, an idyllic landscape. I shield the body from predators with a colander and wait for the shock to subside.

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