justwrite 8 november

it reaches up from in me and yanks me down and for some time all i can do is follow the jerky dips and swells of sobs welling up inside no hiding it when you're alone alone and no one hears or sees through the open window which is fine is good and just to ride it out is the better thing to do the only thing to do not to pick up the phone and if it rings this is not the time and the line is drawn somewhere around in the sand a chalky outline of flailing a bungled trail leading straight into the ocean and floating seems harder than swimming but if i just hold my breath i can keep out the water but the sky changes its mind and i find myself back on the shore unsure of why and what is wrong with me and why can't i be more like me as i see as i want to be seen with a clean set of dishes and comingtrue wishes and even when they do my hands are too dirty to reach out and instead of thank you my lips say i'm sorry and i turn away away into myself a tight ball stalling out on reason and freezing into shivers unforgivable and damaging though there is no break and i am falling still again choking in sandy sobs crusting my eyes with tears tearing out of my shell the never-tell adversity to struggle with through though what is there to worry about and when i catch myself falling i can only let go for a moment and then i am running to catch up and to find out and to charge that bill for fierce independence and will there be change and will there be tips and when will the trips eclipse the fall of all calling birds and who gets to fly and who is baked into a pie and when are the words to sing

By the time she has written this down, Lindsay can breathe a little better, but the feeling that woke her up is too raw to allow a return to sleep. It's 7:00 and she has more time for sleeping-- her first Monday class doesn't start until 9:15-- but she doesn't think turning off the lights and rolling over will really be worth much in the way of settling down.

Maybe some tea.