Catharsis

There are times when I stare at the floor and jab at my skull trying to shake something loose in there. And sometimes my hand ends up hurting before I accept the torpidity of the moment. And sometimes I will stare through the dusty kitchen blinds at a neighbor’s lemon tree when I am overcome by inspiration that roars out of the quiet like sirens that whisper in the distance, evolving into shrill screams that taunt my quiet corner of the world. And that is when all of the self-doubt that eats at my stomach subsides. That is when my eyes become crazed and the fucking pile of dishes and overdue bills and answers I have not given can all wait. Go ahead, sue me. I’m busy. There’s nothing you can take from me that would end this frenzy.

–That. That is what I wait for. That is the moment I have made ill-advised sacrifices to create room for; the moment that beckons me to pry my chest open so that everything I am can be exposed as I bleed whatever truth is left in me all over this pristine, snowy page of chaste innocence.

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