The Rabbit Hole

You keep promises the way you wear that ratty old sweater you got on your 10th birthday. Not because you wanted to but because you think you should. And I said it's fine, as long as you keep it anyway. My sister looked at me with pity. (Or was it fury?)

You sent "Good morning, I love you." messages just so you could cross something out on your to-do-list. Conversations with you felt like reading an auto-generated response — one that I already memorized. And I said it's fine, we do get tired talking sometimes. My sister looked at me with annoyance. (Or was it disgust?)

You loved me the way you wash the dishes that have been piling up on the sink and I was a plate filled with day-old grease that you would rather throw on the floor. Loving me — was never a habit — always a chore. And I said it's fine, I'm used to being the one loving more. My sister looked at me with terror. (Or was it horror?)

I am smart. I am kind. I am beautiful.
𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦, 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘥𝘰 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 — 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶?

— Christine Janne, "Foolish"

Photocredits: Pinterest | Nillietiller

𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝑰'𝒎 𝒊𝒏 𝒂𝒏 𝒖𝒏𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒂𝒍 𝒐𝒇 𝒖𝒏𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒈𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒇 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒑𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒚 — 𝑰 𝒇𝒊𝒙 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔.

When I was 10 and sad, I would comb the golden hair of my dolls and fix their tiny little dresses. I would clean their mini houses until it shined as bright as their newly combed hair.

When I was 17 and broken, I would fold my newly washed clothes that smelled like lavender and pile them up accordingly — size — color — style.

When I was 20 and scared, I would rewrite my notes until calluses formed on my fingers, after that, I would straighten up the pages of my books like it mattered.

When I was 22 and lost, I would change my bedsheets, my pillowcases, and all the curtains in our house. I would sweep the floor until it glistened as if dust had never dared to kiss its surface.

𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝑰'𝒎 𝒊𝒏 𝒂𝒏 𝒖𝒏𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒂𝒍 𝒐𝒇 𝒖𝒏𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒈𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒇 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒑𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒚 — 𝑰 𝒇𝒊𝒙 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔.

But then I am 24 and bleeding on my bedroom floor from the wounds, though no longer visible, ached still. My hair was a tangled crown with eyes filled with pathetic tears. I stared at the mirror in horror at the chaos I was in. So I knelt on the knife-cold floor and scrubbed my crimson blood. I scrubbed with my heart breaking. I scrubbed while asking the heaven why. I scrubbed, but the blood kept on dripping.

And you entered the door. I looked at you like the first light of the morning after a terrible night, and you looked at me like I'm someone you no longer recognize. Because I am no longer neat, no longer clean. But can't you see? 𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒇𝒊𝒙𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔.

So I was there in my bedroom, cold and alone at 24, scrubbing my own blood from the floor... whispering, "𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒔𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒚 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒔𝒔."

— Christine Janne, "Tinker"

Photocredits: Pinterest | AllInTheCupboard

So it would begin. My little hands on your shoulders, your hands warm on my waist. My head on your chest as we sway to the rhythm of our own heartbeats. I often wonder, how can they say that we are solitary creatures when our bodies are made for each other's embrace? My world fits in your ribcage, the way your hands fit perfectly to the curves of my waist — like they were made to be held by you.

We were there. The floors creaking as we kept on spinning, our hearts burning with a passion so raw — so rare.
We spin — your eyes, with their esoteric gaze, always meeting mine.
And spin — your voice is Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata played under the rain.
And spin — your touch is a porcelain glass, so dangerously delicate.
It is a dance that could make angels fall from grace — yet we keep on dancing the dance only we know how.

But the rhythm suddenly comes to a halt and we keep on waiting to the end that just wouldn't come. My hands are aching and my body's sore. My feet are bleeding on the floor. How do you rip your heart out and hand it to someone, just to decide that it is time to walk away? When the corners and crevices of your body are the only universe I know — where do I go?

We're still there. The floors creaking as we keep on spinning, two unenthusiastic souls, tired but with nowhere to go.
We spin — love, care, and hope used to be here. (Maybe they're still here.)
And spin — your eyes, your voice, your touch used to feel like home. (Maybe they still do.)
And spin — but the warmth is familiar despite the hurt.

So there goes the two of us — bleeding, battered, and bruised — but still dancing this tired old dance.

— Christine Janne, "Still we dance"

Photocredits: Ig |