Sutured

I have known this cold long enough to stop calling it pain. I open myself to look.

The ballast I cannot shed — my own marrow, pulling me down. I am a wanderer, lost in a sea of others, tethered to emotions pulled about by currents. Vanquished by determination, conquered by hatred. I often wonder if it is my fault.

Everything freezes. I evacuate myself, turning to examine the shell. The nine, each distinct, mapped across my face like a text I could finally read. And there it is — the shard of cold beyond feeling, melting and reforming, a dagger plunging into my still heart. The box I wrapped it in, torn to shreds.

Pulling out a needle and thread I weave a blanket, cradling my heart like a newborn, coaxing life into it once more. Closing my chest, I feel the ice melt away. Sifting through my memories, compartmentalizing. Iron doors padlock the bitterness and hurt, while the glass doors entombing my mind fracture. They dissolve slowly, painfully, as I stitch my head together again.

Merging with myself once more, I press play on life. The hand is still outstretched, so I tug with all my might. Breathing fresh air at last, I turn to look at my rescuer — and push my captor into the murky depths.