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I broke that promise unwillingly and my heart bleeds bits begging for forgiveness. They were beautiful and I sang to them each time, comforted them, for they feared returning to this world, and promised them all the love and care I could offer. I could see their auras, one blue with tinges of gold and orange and the other fiery red with bursts of orange and yellow. I did not know their sexes, but I longed for a boy and a girl. They were both dancers and the smaller one played a drum for her twin to dance its heart out. She was always present, but behind the more active and boisterous one. She was furious when I told her that I had seen them, and many times. I should have known then that their carrier, my partner at the time, the woman who would become my wife, would only try to hurt me for the rest of my life.
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I saw my first two before they were even conceived. I dreamed of five, two a set of twins, three boys and two girls in total. I did not know this about myself until I was 27 years old and I had to undergo comprehensive testing to begin the miraculous preparation for childbirth. I have found that I only receive it with more physical and emotional anguish, albeit internalized, than most. You think that this would mean that I was prepared for suffering and pain since birth. Thus, I was born with a heart that would never be whole. When babies take that first breath of independent life, the walls begin to seal into four distinct processing areas. When babies are swimming in the warmth and protection of their mother’s uteri, there is no need for there to be walls between the heart’s chambers because they do not have to process the toxins of the world’s air just yet. I’ll continue to be that person that calls out on Valentine’s day, who escapes group hugs by tying her shoe, and who will only smile when there is an attempt to pass a baby my way. I sustain myself on malnourishment while others claim it fulfills them in ways that food comforts a hungry belly. I don’t really understand why most people crave it. I seem normal most days because I can keep it to myself. I want to scream, “don’t fucking touch me!” I make the person feel like they have cut me and I’m so fucking tired of the confused expression in their eyes. I get the sense of urgency that probably accompanies a suicide from a 30 story rooftop. But what do I fear most? A seemingly harmless embrace from a friend. I walk miles before taking public transportation. I don’t know if I ever really did.” The bugs begin to crawl again and overcome me. There is no devastation like the words, “I don’t love you anymore. I can’t tell you about some terrible trauma because I simply don’t remember what happened to me. What does it feel like to me? Pins and needles, ice and fire… tiny bugs crawling up and down my skin… an urge to escape myself and all that is touch and sensation.įor as long as I can remember, I have been this way.