Posted in Poetry

Bubbles

I spent most of my life held inside a bubble.

It was soft and made of rubber and sand.

If you looked at it in the right light, you might’ve seen the shards,

Glass shards.

Everyone who tried to get in was meant to get hurt

And anytime I tried to leave

my hands, my arms, my mouth, my eyes

everything would be soaked in bubbly red.

 

I guess I always thought it was easier to breathe inside the bubble,

Especially at times when it wasn’t.

I loved breathing in air in short gasping breaths,

One panicked inhale followed by a loud wheezing of air.

In a way, I guess the air always tasted like tangerines and copper.

Oh, how I loved tangerines.

Oh, how I miss the copper.

Bitten lips drank in greedily a scent that tasted like dusty water

And rusty air,

But it was the only air I knew how to breathe,

And, God how I breathed.

Breath, after breath, after breath, after sob,

Until I couldn’t tell what was oxygen and what was my own exhale.

 

The bubble didn’t make me unreachable,

But it did make me wary.

If you asked me a question,

You may not have gotten an answer…

But

If you took your time,

And had patience,

I may have endured the glass shards just so I could pretend to hold you.

 

In the bubble things were always too much

Too big clothes, worn shoes, thick eyebrows, and chokingly long hair.

A nose that was too big, and eyes sunk into a forehead that could be called a head.

A body too thin, hands too small,

And social skills so bad they often made me breathless.

In the bubble everything was a mixture of old and broken pieces.

But I was happy.

 

I was so happy.

 

I was so scared.

L.

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Author:

23-year-old writer from Chile. Currently reading, writing, and trying not to lose my mind.

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