Something Fierce

Slowly moving over somewhere else. JUST YOU WAIT until my next day off so I can finish this thing.

“I’m not going to get better tonight.”

He tells me “write, just write. Just do what you need to do.” But I’m not going to get better tonight.

I sit on this immaculate Ikea chair standing exactly in the middle of a room so cluttered  there’s no way out, and I put on my headphones. I don’t play any music, but I keep the headphones on and hunch down. I do this regularly, when I’m cycling -I put on headphones and start to write. No music. No songs. The headphones block me out and all I can hear is my breathing, deep and aware, telling me to calm down, that there is no need to cry. Once in a while the silence is broken and I can hear his voice from the other room, asking me if I’m okay. I’m not okay, but I can’t say that to him so I don’t answer. I’d rather him think I’m playing Top 40 so loudly I can’t hear his quiet worries.

I think of the times he has told me he likes what I say, when I say it in writing. He always eggs me on, he tells me that there are things I can write other people should read. I just wonder if only he thinks that because only he needs the answers to the questions he asks quietly, from another room.

Genie Hour: If we close in less than an hour you only get three wishes.

I swear to you that
If I had the chance to catch my breath
I would tell you about
How these last three days have been
The most difficult month of my life

Clean my mind, clean my mind. Let me sit here and type. I want my brain to be filled with bright white screen light. Blind my eyes, clean my mind. Only tip and tap for my time.