Thursday, July 20, 2017

I've spent the better part of summer running from page and pen. As if they can't find me//as if what insists on being said isn't already pirohuetting in blood. You can numb entire acres of yourself and still get hurt, hurt more, hurt worse. Stagger back and slice through. I don't care to be scared anymore. This is the most wonderful and dangerous part.

I'll drive the same block, play the same song, turn wheel same way with half a hand if it means staying with the feeling. Sometimes I start to scrawl and get stuck in mood--whole day below sea level because what isn't pried open will fall apart eventually. Every minute without it forms a faultline until the shattered creates a dent. Press here. Press often. Writing isn't easy. Even when it feels better than breathing. Even when you know it's true medicine--shit gets expensive. I catch myself stopping between lines to cover my mouth in the quiet.

I ramble to friends about clawing surfaces. It's a process, catch and release. Carrying close this house full of cups and dust, broken bits of belief, half moons of cursive. Moments pickled, suck sour clean then burn them. There isn't a breathing being on planet that can do it. Stalk page like prey. Lick the bones til they glow.

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