she'd kill me too
bruises on my legs like an apple that's been dropped. having scratched knees and bug bites stop being acceptable after a certain age. i still stop and stare at how the water refracts light, crouch down to examine passing bugs and beetles, seeing how the chitinous bodies of insects move. pause and let the magpie go about it's business, the crow examine a rock, the rabbit to cross the path before i go on my way.
it's funny; i feel like a child most of the time, but my shoulders ache with the weight of a grief so heavy it hurts, the source unknown. perhaps; a childhood unresolved.
i've heard it said that you should be nice to yourself, as being cruel to your current body is being cruel to the child version of you. there's no difference to me. it is still myself, just passed through the dimension of time. my self loathing is so strong it surpasses that metric and rockets back to her as well. there is no version of myself i would not crush underfoot. she was lonely, self absorbed, hot headed. i know all the inner workings of her mind, just as i know all the inner workings of mine, and so i say - let the executioners blade fall freely - both our heads will roll with the same guilt.