Talking Heart

We sat in Sailor’s kitchen.  My eyes were still closed.  She’d laid her hands on my shoulders, my neck…and my life raced helter skelter through my head.

“You’ve been talking now for hours,” she said.  She didn’t criticize; it was soothing, the way she said it.

She was right, too. I couldn’t stop.  I couldn’t stop talking.  I had to blurt out every story, every meaningless anecdote from my life.  I tried to stop for a moment, to see what made me so afraid…

Afraid because that was what it was: my mouth had come unmoored from my heart, and I could not stop it.  Or perhaps it was the opposite: my mouth was roped up to my heart, inextricably intertwined, bound and knotted, connected up to this blood engine in my chest that was pumping, beating so fast for her I couldn’t shut up.

Stupid boy.

I closed my lips and looked into her eyes.  I was terrified.  I breathed.

She stroked my hair so softly I thought I would cry.

“Just sit still,” she said, “and it will come.”

I’d never experienced this.  It’d never been like this.  God fucking damn it.  And now cursing!  Fuck! Narc, you emotional child!  Stop yourself!

And now…here…with Sailor, I couldn’t shut up…an impossible deluge of information about my life had just poured out of me…as if I were a child, returning to the safety of a parent.  But what was this?  What was the one thing I actually had to say?

I sat still.  Sailor and I stared.

“I’m feeling a bit nauseous,” I said.


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