writing in a notebook with a pen.
it had been a while.
making music with words and glue, with scraps of paper and stamps, with guitars and laughter.
trying to remember to breathe.
scratch that. there is no remembering when there is nothing forgotten, when there is only what you know, right in front of you. inside of you.
trying to learn how to breathe.
trying to let go, look up, believe in something, believe in myself.
sometimes it all seems very very far away.
unbearably far away. never.ever.coming.and.i.can’t.stand.it.might.as.well.give.it.up far away.
sometimes the impatient rage that bubbles up,
determined, tastes like despair when it gets trapped between my throat and the back of my teeth and i try to spit, but
just end up crying, instead.
i am stuck. like a glass jar of honey left outside on a night when the wind could cut. stuck and sticky. my blood is sludge, my heart pinched and scowling, my bones brittle, brain rattled, eyes bleary, body lead heavy and ridiculously slow.
i squint up at the sky and give the universe
wish for cold weather, necessary sweaters and a solid excuse to wallow. orange leaves, the inside-bone crisp of fall wind, dark skies even before dinner.
somebody get this woman a hot toddy.
stick her in a corner, with a book and a blanket, a furrowed brow and just a little bit of room.
she’ll be alright.