the universe inside.
Everything seems to be whispering, “open, open, open” and it’s hard until it’s not.
It’s hard to breathe when your heart is being squeezed by the world around you. Suddenly words are nooses and actions are branches from which you hang yourself again and again.
They aren’t words misspoken, but words that are trapped somewhere between the stone in your chest that is supposed to be beating and the swollen slug in your mouth that is supposed to be enunciating the everything around you.
Sour milk and fresh chalk and week-old easter flowers.
The time you spend writing has not amounted to enough yet, you see that now. The heart sent wishes, but the will was weak—fixated on all the ideas of “should.”
But you’re seeing it now, it’s “open, open, open.”
Let the words pour even if you can feel the pestle grinding into that heartspace—and the dust that wafts up from your center will make you cough and sputter and you’ll be glad you’re alone to deal with it. Glad the only one to witness is a notebook with more blank pages than not.
And the coughs and sputters will escalate until your eyes are draining and your throat is screaming raw; but raw is good because after you’ve coughed yourself to hot white, you’ll notice flecks of blood on your pages—blood that will remind you of your aliveness.
Of rage and passion and life and fragility and nothing.
You’ll stare at the flecks on the page. You’ll take your pen and connect the dots with poems until you can identify constellations and planets and moons.
There is is, you’ll think to yourself. There’s the universe I had inside of me.
[image: catrin welz stein on pinterest]