Boundaries are weird. Cosmically weird. I’ve always had a problem with boundaries.
See, I walk around with my ribcage cracked open and my lungs on display for anyone who cares to watch me breathe; you’d think I would unlearn surprise at their love of this softness but my lungs are not my heart and I recoil from anyone who tries to reach out and touch. What if they take hold and squeeeze and get lung tissue under their nails? They can’t be trusted.
My sternum, unattached, sits a floating, ineffective guard against whatever may come my way while I navigate this strange grapple between crippling fear of intimacy and desperate starvation for the softness of the skin webbing between fingers and the soft spot beneath the ear and countless other places where it would be so nice to touch and be touched.
Once my dearest friend told me she was afraid she was a black hole, that no light would ever escape her again. I reminded her that the quasar of a black hole is the brightest thing in the whole universe. That surrounding her was a light that could never be matched composed of every element she could name, burning. Where all matter refused to go gently into and loved too fondly to be fearful of the night that lies at the end of all things, the heat death of the universe, the unknown stillness at the center of a black hole. The night in the center of her chest where sometimes there is more darkness, more hurt than breath that she is certain it will swallow the world whole. There is more light and life and brilliant mutiny surrounding her, made by her, caused by her, intrinsically tied to her, in existence solely because of her than she can imagine.