Coffee pulses through your veins, from the cup up through your fingers and into your
bloodstream. There’s an entire lake held back only by my eyelids and pride.
Every word that spills from my brain into the air belongs to my mother.
I want to reach out and collect them. Box them with every midnight call I’ve ever
made and the love letters the post box swallowed and never spat back up.
I want to wrap them in cheap Christmas wrapping paper and put them
in the attic of my Grandparents forgotten memories. The label reads:
“I’m not sure I’m myself anymore” in gold ink. You’re not sure who you are either,
though you haven’t said it yet. The knock on your door echos through the
bones in your jaw. I want to tell you that I never lied, that my silence wasn’t everything
that your head convinced you it was. I wasn’t everything your head convinced you I was.
Instead I let my sanity crawl into my head and fall back into a familiar blanket of numb.
I’ll wait here until the real world has something to offer.