It rests behind my eyes.
Not easy, but pushing, pushing at me,
and I push back and blink and try to ignore it.
And in my chest,
that rushing, building, Oh feeling;
leaving me a gasping, reeling mess who holds onto the wall in order to keep standing.
{See there? Those finger lines,those indents there on the wall? Just my size and height.}
I did that.
Just as I did so many years of forgetting and pushing away and wandering by the wayside.
Creating the Ache.
Now I squeeze it tight within, squeezing the life outta it. Smushing it like a bug: crack and smush and there it lies, deader than dead and easily rinsed away by a flood of water. Salt laden or clear or a mud river torrent.
Sometimes I breathe it away. In and out breaths, slow and careful. Like giving birth, only this time,
this time I'm the only one left. Those Ache images are gone, crumpled and blown away and I don't see them anymore.
No one does.
Since The Ache only ever appeared to me. Mine alone. And mine to smash down, strip to shreds, and let fly.
Tiny ash shards. Howling their own Ache across the mountains and gone.
GypsyMama Writing Prompt. Write for 5 minutes on Ache - then stop.
