I don't stop by too much these days
Not entirely sure why- maybe I just forget. But I stopped by to type up some writing that was wandering around my head during the drive home from work about an hour ago. Here it goes.
She cried like a child; taking in great gulps of air, tears rolling in waves down her cheeks, her nose leaking mucus all over her lips. She shuddered, she gasped, she clawed at her arms. She looked like she didn't know how to cry. She didn't have much occasion to, and when you don't do something for a while, the action gets rusty. Somehow, her brain forgot how to physically grieve.
Every time it looked like the spasms were done, like the anguish had faded, her mind seemed to slap her again with memories, with things left unsaid, with things said for the last time. She couldn't get air in as fast as she expelled it. She couldn't stand and wobbled to the floor. She tore red and white streaks down the sides of her arms, elbows locked and wrists and fingers on automatic. She couldn't keep it up for much longer. She looked like she wanted to howl, to scream, but there was never enough air. As bad as she looked, as hard as she was shaking and shuddering, the emotion wasn't coming out. She had locked it up for too long.
I watched her for as long as I could take it, then sat next to her and tried to put a hand on her shoulder. She violently shrugged me off, but it was enough to jar her focus. She glared at me, her face red, eyes and cheeks swollen, lips smeared with mucus and tears. I tried to smile, tried to convey that things would be okay, but it was lopsided and fell off my face before it had a chance to fully form. She sniffled and rubbed her mouth, scrubbed her eyes with the backs of her hands. I awkwardly, lamely, put my hand on her knee and mechanically patted a few times. She stared at my hand until I removed it.
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I spent 70$ at Half Price Books before work last night. Whoops?
She cried like a child; taking in great gulps of air, tears rolling in waves down her cheeks, her nose leaking mucus all over her lips. She shuddered, she gasped, she clawed at her arms. She looked like she didn't know how to cry. She didn't have much occasion to, and when you don't do something for a while, the action gets rusty. Somehow, her brain forgot how to physically grieve.
Every time it looked like the spasms were done, like the anguish had faded, her mind seemed to slap her again with memories, with things left unsaid, with things said for the last time. She couldn't get air in as fast as she expelled it. She couldn't stand and wobbled to the floor. She tore red and white streaks down the sides of her arms, elbows locked and wrists and fingers on automatic. She couldn't keep it up for much longer. She looked like she wanted to howl, to scream, but there was never enough air. As bad as she looked, as hard as she was shaking and shuddering, the emotion wasn't coming out. She had locked it up for too long.
I watched her for as long as I could take it, then sat next to her and tried to put a hand on her shoulder. She violently shrugged me off, but it was enough to jar her focus. She glared at me, her face red, eyes and cheeks swollen, lips smeared with mucus and tears. I tried to smile, tried to convey that things would be okay, but it was lopsided and fell off my face before it had a chance to fully form. She sniffled and rubbed her mouth, scrubbed her eyes with the backs of her hands. I awkwardly, lamely, put my hand on her knee and mechanically patted a few times. She stared at my hand until I removed it.
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I spent 70$ at Half Price Books before work last night. Whoops?