The Story of a Pocketful of Sand

And as I slump my hands in the back pocket of my dark jean skirt, my fingernails reach its gritty bottom.  And when I take out my hands, my nails are thick with what remains of a pocketful of sand.   The sand is all that remains of an older memory, of another time.

And I’ve washed the skirt, so many times.  I want to get it all out, I want nothing in me to remain.  I want to be cleansed of it and emerge unbroken and full.  But the sand refused to budge- it clings to the last thread.

Do you remember that night?

Recklessly running towards the sea.  Throwing clothes onto the beach as we dipped into the water.  And as the moon shone on the water, the wind blew past us softly, you held me closer.  My eyes shone for you too, and my heart was opened towards you.

Can you recognize beauty when it stares at you in the face, or is it just words jumbled together? Can you feel emotion when it beats in your chest?  My words slipped out of me that night.  And my heart flew a little higher.  And when I snuggled myself in bed later on, thinking of you, there were stars in my eyes.

But now it’s just a memory, a memory that reminds me of you.  A memory that brings me colder, and tenser; holding my blanket closer, harder against my body.  A memory that makes me ache.  A memory that breaks me so that I can only attempt to hold myself together with the seams of my blanket.

And I wish only now that you could read my words so that you could see me bear my soul in the only way I know how.

I just want to know what it meant when you looked at me that way- when your blue eyes sank deep inside me.  I just want to know that when my emotion spilled out of me like a broken vessel, if you were catching it, or if you were reckless then as well?

I just want to know why I blame myself for never being enough.