I stopped moving--my hand above a jar, my fingers over the keys. I can't believe I stopped moving. I think something happening in my throat, or in my jaws; some sound died an inky little death between those angles and rounds. My cheeks are already flushed; but I don't feel them. But I did feel them, just then; warm and too close, my skin too close to my brain too close to--I should run. Now. I really should get my feet gone. If it doesn't kill me, it will twist me like a branch caught up in a sweater. And we all know how easily sweaters get fucked up.
I want to stretch; I do not want to darken. Not in this way, at least.
It is silly. It is embarrassing. It is trifling, I imagine--but a very small thing can conjure some serious symptoms. It isn't the flea; it is what comes with the flea. And this small thing, virus, plague, can cover a body. Latticeillnessironironironnettles I just pulled a hangnail too far.
I have gone so long without tearing my nails; I do not want to tear my nails.
There--it is so small that it is already gone. But...but there is a ghost. There is a bite pattern, lingering and itching and before I can know whether I have what I think I have, I am already thinking I have it, and the thought of it makes me ill.
I am leaving this thought behind--it won't do me no good where I'm goin', anywho.
Lay me down in the grooves of a hard written 'n harder erased word, Lani, I need to think--good and long, or not at all.
No comments:
Post a Comment