and let me kick you off a bungee

I don't find any comfort in the vulnerability, in the stickiness of my drying blood or the blackness that has become the world— but I find no discomfort in it either. It is all just there, pieces coming together to form the disastrous puzzle that I am. I do not feel at ease on my own, do not find any sort of safety wrapped up in my own void, quite the opposite really. Instead I am a quiet disaster, waiting for the moment to come where I'm struck down and there's nothing more for me to worry about— I'll already be dead. But no, I am within the borders of home, in a place where harm will not reach me. It is no guarantee, for I should be safe in the arms of Momma, not afraid. But I am so terrified. Children so young should not know fear so personally, should not know the taste of Death when they have barely just begun to understand how to walk and run.

It was only the beginning.

The lingering kiss of Death has left me tired, even after hours of lying beside Momma and dreaming of solely the soft spring day I was born into, I still feel it's fatigue. It pulls me down, makes me feel too solid and real to believe that I'm just some lingering thought, a dream that was cared for too deeply— I could touch the sands beneath me, could smell the summer air running through the tangled wisps of my hair, could feel the heat of the sun pouring over my freckled back. I am so painfully real, and I wish I wasn't.

Children shouldn't feel this way, should they?

But I do, I feel so strongly that I should fade away, should soon enough disappear into a nothingness and be just a tattered memory in the encompasses of Momma's mind. These hopes, these prayers, will go unanswered. I will eventually return to her side, will hear her fret over me and again tremble as she tries to dress my wounds— she will fail, will turn away sobbing and I will try to whisper something comforting to her. It will do nothing for her. She will feed me and care for me otherwise, will love me as much as someone can when their mind is so many worlds away. I will lie still against her, will not let her feel the pounding of my heart as she breathes me in and pulls me closer, as though she'll wake up without me one morning and realize that I was never really there (I wish). But each morning we rise together, and the process repeats— she audibly gags each time she pulls at the dressings and instead proceeds to feeding me despite my lack of appetite. Growing children are gluttonous and needy, seeking attention from their parents and desperate to get it— I am far too distant, far too focused on something that isn't this. I like to think that sometimes Momma may worry when my lips remain sealed and I refuse her offerings, but I wouldn't know. I'm taking after her more than I realize.

I concentrate on maintaining passive features, knowing that moving the wounded flesh is excruciating, closing myself away at an age where I shouldn't be able to (should I even know how?). It takes work, moments where my face will twist and muffled cries will escape me, but never near Momma— I do not know what she will do to me every time she approaches, the faint sounds of her hooves against loose sand making me tense each time I catch it. She still hasn't noticed my reaction to her actions, how hesitant I am to eat from her and lay beside her, that I am slipping away faster than a child should.

Splashing becomes prominent, not just the tumbling of waves but there's something more. The most immediate thought is Momma, and I stiffen up and hold my breath. I fear that she will be angry— I've never traveled to the water before today, perhaps this will be the day I begin to consider Death an acquaintance. I am wrong. The voice is soft, and not Momma at all— it's someone entirely new, but someone I should know the name of (Momma whispers her name often, fretting). I stumble warily, trying to pinpoint her location but coming up a little off, reaching into the dark in hopes to find her this way.

My voice is hushed, almost lost to the sea behind us. "M-m-my mo-mm a... It trails away and I do not know what else to do. This is my first time interacting with anyone outside of Momma, hesitant and hyper aware of the situation. Does she know? I feel that if I let her look closer at the wounds she'll know immediately what's been done to me, that this is my punishment for being. I swallow thickly, moving back to prevent her from looking any closer at the nasty gashes over my face and deciphering who was responsible. Don't tell her. I want to say, want to beg for her to stay quiet, but I don't think she knows yet— safe.