Sitting to write about pain makes me so stupid
I sit to write about loneliness, how even though he sits right beside me, we are separated by a live wire cage of tendons, running red hot through me, and branding each thought with lightning; quick ceaseless impulses that tell me to stay quiet, because what can he do anyway.
I sit to write about being tired, how there are days when every movement, down to the smallest lifting of a glass or fork is planned.. how I have become a strategist and waste no gesture, lest I be set on fire from within, and lose track of the time while I sear.
I wrack my brain for adjectives and nouns, and clever metaphors, but everything I can say sounds like it comes from the brain of a black-clad time traveler from the 90s. I stay silent, as silent as I can, and instead hope to sleep.