It was the stutter of the ink on the page, the blip on the map, the pause in my words.
It was the space between memory beads in your pillow, where you put your head down and slept.
You slept because it was easier than facing the day, a day filled with stutters, blips, and pauses.
It was easy going through life avoiding these gaps and difficulties, only facing them when you must, and even then you compensating by digging the blade a little deeper in hopes to forget.
Your life was the lies you told of “I’m fine, it’s all good, and I’m just really tired.”
It was the mispronounced sorry when someone bumped into you.
It was the scared you felt when he kicked you, because you were in his way.
It was the alone you felt in the crowd. It was the anxiety the crowd gave you.
It was the feeling of desperation, where you sat on the floor of the bathroom, torn between the blade in one hand, the pills in the other, and the porcelain bowl in front of you.
It was the way your ribs showed through your skin.
Your wrist bones sharp under tight skin.
It was the hug you received when she had killed herself. The hug of the pain and utter brokenness.
It was those years you spent, trying to understand why you didn’t have a birth mother.
It was the pain that came when you were broken down so badly.
It was in those spaces, those moments.
It was the breaking points, the sharp edges of razors, the punch to the stomach, the fingers down the throat.
They were all compensations when all you needed was a hug and an “I love you.”
Your hug and I love you came 14 years late, but it was there.
Now you compensate by living. You compensate by proving all your stutters, blips, and pauses wrong by being you, and being alive.