The air of May holds so much anxious energy — so many memories of lack and longing — strong feelings of being empty, and memories of emptying myself out even more.
Twenty-two years of living with a hand on my own throat, just daring myself to swallow or speak, and desperate to “keep the peace.” I have vowed not to do that anymore, but my body… well, she’s still keeping score.
I don’t know how to erase the vivid video of my mind’s eye, replaying the times I poured my heart out to porcelain. Rows of pills to empty me out, lined up like my perceived faults — counting them, swallowing them.
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