Burning

I've heard about heartache.
Where the very thing keeping you alive is in pain.
At least that's what they say.

Well, my heart doesn't ache.
But every inch of my body is on fire with it.

It burns right behind the eyes.
It's when you can't make eye contact with yourself in the mirror...at least not for too long.
Because you cry.
Maybe one cliched tear that leaves a seared trail.
Maybe a cry that heaves your whole body forward, the lowest lonely.

It burns in your stomach.
Like nausea, but different.
You can't eat because food tastes bad. It hits hard in your belly.
Like the rock you just threw in your glass house.
Why eat? You just broke something. You broke someone.

It burns in your throat, choking. Because talking about it is too much.
And talking about anything else seems trivial.
So you may just throw up.
Throw up the tightness in your throat.
Or try to breathe.
But even air tastes sad. Trust me.

It burns in your arms that can't hold them.
Your hands that can't touch.
Your ears void of their voice.
It burns in your knees because you can't find the strength to walk.
It burns everywhere.
Which is a reminder that you aren't, in fact, as empty as you feel.
If you were, you wouldn't burn with pain inside.

You are on fire.
But the heart feels fine.
Pumping life to each hot, tormented inch. And you keep going.

And your eyes will cry until they can't.
And you will lose weight because you can't eat, until one day you can.
And you'll find the words to talk about it.
And the air will smell normal.
Your arms will hold something else, your hands too.
Even if it's only yourself.
And your ears will listen to someone else.
And you'll walk right into the next day feeling full and not empty.

Not like you just ruined the best part of your life.
And the fiery pain of heartache will burn out.
At least that's what they say.
I'm not sure I believe it.