The Fabric of Our Souls

by K.M. Moronova

There will never be a way to explain why I am this way. It’s something that you endure wholly, entirely. A deep and empty pit inside your flesh that never closes, no matter what you try to fill it with. No matter what thread you try to sew it shut with, it gapes and itches. An emergency exit that waits patiently for any who stray. My doctor says it’s a chemical imbalance in my brain, and fuck, they’re probably right. But it doesn’t stop the very real, un-chemical, raw nothingness that ravages my entire being. The pills don’t help, they never have, and none of my therapists seem to understand why I’m so fucked up.

“They acted innocent and coy, drawing me in like fresh air. Wishing to know what ailed me. And the only thing I ever learned from opening up to people was that they desired to know exactly what would hurt me, only to turn the blade back and inflict riotous, irrevocable damage themselves.”

Lanston Nevers “The Fabric of our Souls is thin and worn. We must be gentle and love tirelessly.”