"I don't know," she said as she looked down to tie her shoes.
He looked at her intently trying to understand exactly what was going on in her head. He puts his shirt back on and zips his jeans. He goes to give her a hug but she is quick to shy away from the embrace.
Little did he know that her mind is... was... swarming with ticking time bombs ready to attack at the perfect moment. Preventing her from connecting with him through anything but sex.
She finds herself later sinking into her bed. Caressed by her sheets. She closes her eyes and lets the darkness behind her lids engulf her.
Breathing in and out. Slowly so that her chest and her heart can relax into themselves.
She finds herself being swallowed by numerous colors. The colors flow like thick paint, slowly wrapping their liquid bodies around her. She relaxes her mind even further as the warmth of the paint seeps into her skin.
The colors begin to settle into a warm embrace.
In and out.
She opens her eyes and finds herself back in her room. She looks around. Black is everywhere. In her pure black bed sheets. The accents in the pictures on the walls. Her interior for her room.
Black like death coats her space generously while simultaneously being balanced by the white of her walls. In the speckles of white of her pillows and in her comforter. As if the purity of the fabric, the purity of the room refuses to be hushed.
She turns onto her side and squeezes her eyes shut. She slowly drags her hand down her thigh to touch the inside of her leg. Just where her vagina is.
She takes in a deep inhale and grasps the top of her pelvis. She squeezes hard so that the pain distracts her from the pain inside of her mind. She squeezes so hard that her fingernails start to penetrate her skin.
Right before she goes to far, she stops.
Her world goes quiet. No more voices, no more racing thoughts.
She breathes deep as she regains herself from the civil war raging inside of her.
"Why hurt myself?" She inquires quietly to herself.
She sits up to sit on the edge of her bed. She rolls out her neck. Her ankles.
She goes over to her night stand where her easel and paint brush lay.
She dips her paint brush in the red paint and begins to paint the canvas gently with her brush. She kisses the painting lovingly so that her lips are imprinted in the crimson red that now coats the canvas in its entirety.
She then proceeds to use the yellow paint. She strokes the canvas with long elegant lines of vibrant yellow hues. She takes her hand and place it in the yellow paint bowl and then places her hand on the canvas so that her hand is imprinted into the painting.
She takes the white paint and drips it generously from the top of the canvas so that it runs gently down the painting. Slowly as if not in a rush. The paint walks down the canvas kissing each part that it touches with complete love and generosity. Untouched and gently placed, the white paint settles at the end of the painting and drips ever so lightly to the floor.
She steps back and observes her painting. Loved by the red. Held in an abundance of love by the yellow, as if it wants desperately to be friends with the other colors; hand(s) outstretched and vulnerable. Purified by the white as if it washed away whatever was in front of it.
She takes in her painting. Reading its honesty.
She takes the bowl of black paint and throws the paint against the canvas.
The black immediately attaches itself to the other colors. Wedging itself into their territory with nothing but hostile energy.
She looks at her painting now and begins to cry.
The tears run like track stars down her gorgeous countenance.
The painting looks as if it was once beautiful but is now clouded by the pain it was trying so desperately not to give into.
She turns away and sits at the foot of her bed. She holds herself tight and begins to rock back and forth.
She finds a bottle under her bed and takes a drink.
She sits for a moment. Weighted down by her emotions.
She shakes her head gently.
"This isn't you," she says to herself, "bring yourself out of this depression. This isn't you."
She rolls the bottle away from her.
She looks up at her ceiling and begins to hum. One glistening tear trails down her face as she begins to shed her pain.
She hums a sweet hum full of warmth. She lets her mind fixate on the melodies emanating from the vibrations of her throat.
She smiles letting herself get lost in her melodic distraction.
She takes one last deep breathe and climbs back into bed.
No more pain.
No more voices.
Just pure peace.
She falls deep into her slumber and lets the world around her fall away.
"I am here," says the light inside of her.
"I am always here."
She snuggles herself deeper into her comforter and smiles.
The atmosphere quiets into a warmth only to be manifested by the ultimate feeling of self love.
"Painting to Breathe, Humming to Sleep"
A short story about how even the act of being close to someone sexually where, seemingly the encounter is emotionless... can trigger a negative response in the aftermath of one's mind.
But healing is always possible by those who wish to fight for it.