Method of Mancy

I’ve become an arm-crosser. My arms are always crossed when I walk through the city, either closing myself off or holding myself together–usually both. I walk with my eyes down; I can’t look at anyone who passes me. I don’t see anyone at all. I don’t want anyone to see me.

I don’t speak. I have nothing to say. There is nothing to say, nothing… what is it? Nothing to write home about. I don’t sing anymore. I don’t answer the phone. 

Part of me has gone missing–the thing that fills my veins with sweet oxygen, that brings back dying blood so I can imbue it again with life, pounding my own personal drumbeat. That constant companion, my first true friend, is gone. That sound in my ears, that rush of pressure thudding under my skin, is gone. It’s gone. 

I’ve been dug out. The cavity behind my ribs is barren. Emptied. All I feel is the space left behind. I am hollow. Someone wraps their arms around me, trying to give me comfort, but nothing penetrates the skin. I’ve become one with the pain; the only thing remaining of me is animal. That strange, beating thing that kept me alive has been torn out–it’s gone. It’s gone.

When you love someone, you give them your heart. You give them your heart, and you only get it back every time they’re with you. I wait eternity for mine to return to me. I back up to the wall and slide down to the floor and wait day and night, like a dog who doesn’t realize the house is empty–that no one is coming back to open the door, to turn on the lights, to wrap it in their embrace.

I don’t speak. I have nothing to say. There is nothing to say. But I stare. I stare at everything; I stare at nothing. My eyes don’t focus on anything real, can’t make sense of the shapes in front of me. I don’t see anything at all, but still, I stare.

I don’t sing anymore. Album after album echoes around the car, around the room, around my hollow head, hitting every surface and bouncing off again. I don’t sing along. Even the sweetest melody pulls nothing from my throat. I’m not even really listening; I just don’t want to feel the unsettling silence where my heartbeat used to be. Where he used to be.

I don’t speak.

I have nothing to say.

There is nothing to say.