True story. The other morning as I washed the sleep off of my face, I noticed my neck in the mirror. The delicate flesh just above my collar bone was bruised with grip marks like I’d been strangled in the night. Hard. My flesh had bruised like fallen rose petals and I had no idea why.
I pictured the walls of my bedroom closing down and growing hands in the night, pressing into my body and daring me to scream or sigh out into the velvet night. I’ve never been afraid of a little choking, a little extra pressure so I can really feel my carotid artery beating in my neck. Make life feel more vital and impending.
I have yet to solve the mystery of my grips along my neck. Maybe it was my own hand resting gently on my chest and then suddenly pushing on my vocal chords with all of their strength. Playing with the control of breath. Making sure I don’t get complacent. Teasing me so I remember to stay alive.