digestible. · Nikyla Maria

People love my passion, my joy, my magic, my sensuality.
They love the way I make them feel expanded and alive,
as if the walls have moved back a little,
as if the sky has suddenly remembered how to be enormous.

And gods, I understand. I love those parts too.
You see, I love the woman dancing barefoot beneath the stars.
And I love the woman laughing so hard she forgets her own name.
I love the woman cracking herself open and pouring sunlight everywhere.

But that's just it.
There is a cost in the cracking.
There is always a cost, and…

People love to visit the temple,
but nobody wants to stay and help clean the blood off the altar.

Because eventually the tides do turn,
and eventually the ache arrives,
slow and acidic, inevitable,
rolling through me like dark water,
and suddenly everybody grows uneasy.

Oh wow, um, okay, that's a lot.
Um, could you maybe, I don't know, put that away for a minute?

And I try, god, I try.
I gather my sorrow into smaller and smaller containers.
I fold it neatly.
I hide the teeth.
I wipe the blood from my mouth.
I make it beautiful.
I make it digestible.
I make it poetry,
and still the room grows quiet.

And then…
there it is, that sound,
that terrible sound,
the sound of something leaving,
the sound of air escaping,
the sound of my ribs trying and failing to hold themselves together,
the sound of a long exhale that keeps going
and keeps going
and keeps going
long after the lungs are empty,
and suddenly I am falling,
falling,
falling,
the bright balloon everybody pointed at moments ago
collapsing inward,
skin wrinkling,
light dimming,
drifting toward the earth.
Pathetic. Beautiful. A little bit of both.

And I lie there for a minute.
For a day?
For a lifetime?
Who knows, really?
Time behaves strangely when you are busy coming apart.

And I writhe. Oh, how I writhe.
I argue with the gods.
I accuse the moon.
I write sad poetry.
I become absolutely convinced that this is the one.
This is the collapse
I finally fail to survive.

But the valve does not shut.
That is the problem.
That is the miracle.
That is the problem.
The valve does not shut.

I feel everything.
The wonder, the shame,
the ecstasy, the devastation,
the beauty, and the rot.
The same place the light pours in
is the place the knife enters.
You see, the same skin that feels the sun
is the same skin that burns.

And no matter how many times life tears me open,
something inside me keeps reaching,
keeps growing,
keeps choosing,
keeps loving,
as if I am cursed with aliveness,
as if some ancient thing inside my chest refuses extinction,
and so eventually
I gather my bones,
piece by piece,
breath by breath,
and whoa,
I become wider again.
More sky again,
more room again,
more life again,
and suddenly, holy fuck,
the colors return,
the horizon stretches,
the air tastes sweet.

And now I remember why I keep doing this,
why I keep choosing this,
the whole magnificent catastrophe.

Because sure, I could become smaller,
and I could become careful,
and I could seal the wound shut,
and I could stop letting life touch me.
But then I would lose the stars.
I would lose the music.
I would lose the ache of being moved.
I would lose the unbearable beauty of caring this much,
and I can't.
I simply can't.
No way.

So I rise again,
burning again,
laughing again,
astonished again.

And just when I swear I've learned my lesson,
just when I promise,
I promise myself,
this time I'll remain sensible,
life appears in the doorway wearing a different mask,
and I think,
oh, there you are.
Let's get into trouble.