The memories pour over me. Real and alive. Muddled and swirling in my head. I can taste her menthol kisses, my teeth hard against her warm lips. His stomach velveteen under my impatient fingers, the eager little noises stolen from bitten lips - unseeing through half closed eyes. An abandoned bus stop in the middle of the night. Laughing until it hurts; until the pain and tears explode out of me. Shots while shooting Buffy with nerf guns. Waking up next to her morning hair and panda eyes. The reflections on the lake. Being so cold that it hurts. His jacket hanging off my shoulders, warming me up with his arms wrapped tightly around me. Drunk, flying through the night on the back of his bike.
I feel them like the lattice scars across my skin. The things movies and songs are made of, burning short and bright. I write them down to keep them close. I weave stories around the strongest ones. Build them into glimmering ink stained lights. Hold onto them like freshly laundered blankets keeping the demons at bay for another night.
anxiety is terrible, you could be having an attack and no one would even know because it’s an inward thing. it feels like you’re malfunctioning and you can’t process your own thoughts. you get a knot in your stomach and you can’t take a full breath but outwardly you can literally just sit there and look completely normal as long as no one tries to speak to you.