Here it is, back from the dead, yet another little diddy by Tara from the never-finished These Are Our Weapons project. Enjoy.
It’s amazing, once you start thinking about it, how many things we actually repress. Most of it has to do with language, things you can’t say, won’t say, etc. Then there are the cries of grief you can’t even explain, unutterable wails of despair that rise up in your throat only to be choked down again until you’re literally choking on unexpelled air, because we’re not supposed to be so emotional. There are sobs that turn into muffled shrieks as little gasps escape when you finally have to suck in a breath or implode. And all because dorm walls are too thin, and crying isn’t something we want to impose on others.
There are suppressed cries of shock, little gasps that could turn into full out yells and deep moans, if only our parents weren’t listening from the next room when we’re doing something we’re not supposed to. There are stories, endless stories, occasions when you want to break down and start pouring out how one time when you were little you stole a couple Skittles from the glass dish in the babysitter’s dining room and got yelled at and you couldn’t understand what you had done that was so wrong, what reached the level of putting your shoes on the couch in the untouchable front “living” room in the eyes of the woman who had control of your life for 4 hours of every day.
There are times when we want to rant endlessly about ex-first loves and how they were really assholes and treated us like shit but had just such a way of touching this certain spot, and there was that time when they went and got our laundry and an extra pillow and brought it upstairs and stood looking at us while we brushed our teeth as if we were just amazing, brushing our teeth like that, when brushing our teeth is normally such an unattractive activity.
We never get over those ex-first loves, because we don’t talk about it. We never get a really good cry over it to the point where we really get it all out, where we’re really done crying. We always get to the point where we say, well, ok, have to go eat dinner now so I better stop crying because it’s a little silly to be crying this much at 5:14 on a Monday evening anyway, and the sobs get put away, the air gets pushed back down into our lungs, and we move on. Or so it seems. The sobs never really leave. They’re still down in our throats, still completely unutterable, and every time we get a little push a little too close to the area where we store all those unused gasps of air, we get a little closer to the edge where we just lose it all and everything, every last unoxidated fermented breath we’ve been saving up for years and years just spills loose and gets vomited all over the floor in sounds so impossible they hurt.
That’s what we’re all waiting for. That final moment of release, like when you finally throw up after hours of nausea and regret and unpleasant hangover sensations. When you’re finally empty. This is why we’re so unstable. We’ve deemed it unattractive to puke, and we’re all carrying around untold years worth of bile. No pill is ever going to fix all that, no therapist can ever extract all the ugly sores, because the therapists want to make it go away. And the answer isn’t to make it go away but to embrace it, to fully fuck every last painful moment until you climax and it’s done. Not gone away, but sated, finally having gotten the attention it deserved. The air should be filled with noises.We shouldn’t have to hyperventilate.
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