It’s seven o’clock, and I’ve got two hands and a headache.
Lately the writing has been pieces of rubble I’ve preferred to keep to myself; paragraphs about wheat fields and car wrecks. Sometimes poems. I struggle in the stanzas where I once felt so at home. I wear the repetition like a sweater I’ve outgrown.
I used to ask why. Why this. Why me. Why words, always; ink stained jeans and fingertips. I could not feel the blue well of my heart. I could not hear the crack of alliteration always calling me back. My spine, my hips — why I had to find different words for this.
I got older. Kept the notebooks(; my small fires). Kept the letters — the names. The dates. Never called myself a writer — only a dreamer. A bleeder. A seer.
A woman with more heart than any sleeve knew what to do with.
A woman with more heart than even she knew what to do with.
A woman, a woman.