Mourning

I'm finally alone here. The air conditioning hums in a monotone manner that invokes silence. I only know it's on because I can feel the cool air brushing across the side of my calf and tickling the back of my thigh, just above the crook of my knee. I feel it, a cold caress that reminds me of all the warmth I'm lacking.

Right now, it feels like everyone wants something from me - no one's affection is unconditional. Most want simple things, like sex, but a few want something more, something violent, something terrifying that I'm fairly certain that I am not willing to give, no matter the circumstances. But I'm finally alone here, away from their demands, reasonable and unreasonable alike, and I'm not entirely sure that I'm any better off.

I'm mourning, I suppose.

I remember waking up at two-thirty in the morning and wondering why everyone was so angry, because it was so loud and hot and burningly uncomfortable. Why couldn't everyone just be quiet? Maybe I fell asleep, but it seemed only a few minutes later that I wanted from beneath his arm draped over me, oppressive and asking far too much. I sought asylum in her cool, rich green, but even that did not quite match. I wandered off to explore. The boy on the couch was purple, simultaneously cool and hot, but he belonged to her. The man in the guest room was teal, soothing in ways that the others were not, but ultimately closed off. I did not think to question my discoveries until morning, until everyone wanted something again and I had to face it.

A few days later, a man handed me a tumbled hunk of carnelian, plucked from the sand, and smiled, knowing that it was mine. It felt warm and alive in my hand, familiar in a way that seemed utterly alien beneath his expectant gaze. What was mine - my expression, my words, my freedom, my magick - was suddenly being demanded from me - a wild tigress now expected to perform in a circus act. I am untrained, untamed, and I have no desire to jump through flaming hoops. But what else can you do when you find yourself caged?

The air conditioning has shut off. It's a little warmer now, but still chilly. My bare legs are icy to the touch. My phone buzzes against the bedspread, violating my solitude. I'm not really alone here, after all, and I realize that I don't want to deal with other people's demands. Everyone wants something, sees me as an opportunity, a resource rather than a person. No one wants to stop and recognize that I just can't be the endless well of understanding and affection right now, much less of power, too.

I am mourning.

I need to go underground.