Trying on pretty dress after pretty dress, I smiled with forgotten contentment at myself in the Anthropologie dressing room. The time alone had to be stolen and was danced in… until I saw something written [in tiny print] on the dressing room wall…
“Because I still press on the ceiling of the car when it hurts.”
It was like seeing a little Post Secret in real life. Real hurt.
It reminded me of my own hurting habits.
Not too long ago in life, when I the pain was enough, I would sleep in my clothes… namely: my jeans.
When things were too overwhelming.
When it pressed on my chest and wouldn’t give.
When I was exhausted from screaming inside my chest.
When she wouldn’t quit.
When they went with someone else.
When he didn’t want me.
When she wouldn’t quit.
When I just couldn’t do it.
When everything crumbled at my fingertips.
When it was too hard.
When she wouldn’t quit.
When I was there again.
I had forgotten about sleeping in my jeans until that sunny Austin day in Anthropologie. I had forgotten about the pain. And I’m not sad to remember. I am grateful. Funny, it’s hard to describe. Sentence after sentence: typed and wiped away.
I am grateful.
Found this:
“If I swear I have no secrets,
No unspoken desires never confessed,
Will you take your ear from that glass
Pressed to listen so hard against my chest?
I am grateful for the questions,
Though they’re just the same you asked her.
And if I assure you I’m fine, I’m great,
Will you please run from this disaster?
Sometimes you have to sleep in your jeans,
To feel real,
To feel grown.
Legs and hips accept the seams
Some poor, lonely machine has sewn.”
And a song:
[okay, two… couldn’t decide which to share…]
wull hay. 