“Cheerios.” You look down at your body, rendered mostly formless by a bleached white blanket.
You say, “Cheerios aren’t something you make,” and your mom laughs.
At the end of your bed you see a huge bouquet of flowers resting on a table, ostentatiously huge, complete with a crystal vase.
“From Davis,” your mother says. Nearer to you, hovering above your formless body, a tray of food.
You swallow. You look at the Cheerios, bobbing in milk. Your body hurts.
A thought crosses your mind: God only knows what you inhaled while you were asleep. It’s not over.
You lie there, not even thinking really, except to try to consider how to describe the hurt,
as if finding the language for it might bring it up out of you.
If you can make something real, if you can see it and smell it and touch it, then you can kill it.
You think, it’s like a brain fire. Like a rodent gnawing at you from the inside. A knife in your gut. A spiral. Whirlpool. Black hole.
The words used to describe it—despair, fear, anxiety, obsession—do so little to communicate it.
Maybe we invented metaphor as a response to pain.
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