It's like my wrist doesn't know. My fingers can't fold. Is it because I could never respect the line, can't keep inside, am inevitably, selfishly seeping out? My hand finds it weird to handwrite the things it could type, me to put down on paper the things I already speak inside my head.
And my writing feels ugly, and is that a metaphor for something else? I remember I used to fill entire notebooks at school, but maybe that's just because it felt like a prison. I had loads more things to say when I feared I wouldn't be let speak. Now. Words. Conversations. Expecting.
If it hurts my hand to write, am I mistaken in reading an ill omen? How much trash can these hands pump before they run out the exhaust?
If my hand forgets, will my head be next, and am I wrong in fearing what I can not stop? If I can't write anymore, does that say I've found freedom, and how loud shall I scream until I hear it? Fuck you, stop expecting things of me. If I can't fight myself, I'll bloody you glafly, then let myself cave [illegible].
It bothers me when my hands turn into claws 'cause I fear scratching out your throat, then failing to run fast enough so that your bastard crows don't catch me. I'm frightened I won't hold come daylight, so I go about leaving little thimble-size pints of myself under men's pillows. My wrist crumbles like a nightmare chased by daylight. If I can't write, I've no hope of holding myself dear. How do you fortify the bits of you that are becoming fragmented and lonely?
If you can't write, draw. If you can't draw, prop up the piano for a day. Just don't leave me in the dark again. With these weak hands, I've no hope of fighting off the rats.
If you don't handwrite for a long enough time, do you eventually forget how? Last night me seems to think so. I never had trouble writing before, which was eerie and, in turn, inspired the write-up.
