You must get out, get out, get out.
“I always knew she was unusual.”
There’s this lump in my throat—stuck, and my fingers won’t move. I’m constantly uncomfortable, shifting my weight from side to side. My neck will crack three times a day, and I’ll roll over on my back and snap, and snap. My eyes tear up and it hurts to even open them when I wake up each morning. My nails bend, weak, and I dye them apple red to cover up the yellow stains.
My body is trying to tell me something. I have enough water each day, and I work and I laugh and I cry and I run and I cum. I scream. But my fingers won’t move. I feel, and I watch and I smile and I talk, I talk so much, all the time, every day. But my fingers won’t move.
She told me I was unusual, she told me to get out. I got out, but so far I’m further in, somehow. My fingers won’t move, and they’ve been tied to the same place for so long, finding no words, no dripping wax, just stale, hard, crippled have-tos. I only do what I have to, and I haven’t done what I want to. It hurts and my body’s trying to tell me something.
I miss you. I miss you like I knew you back when I thought you were all I wanted. When I was brave enough to think and dream about you, like ambition and accomplishment and truth. I miss you, I miss myself when you were in me, running through me, you made my fingers move so fast. About green eyes and cracked windows and blurry pictures and memory boxes. You remind me of the music that kept me sane and the screams that never left me. I miss you, because of you she thought I was unusual and because of you she wanted me to get out. But without you, my fingers are stuck, they bend only to fetch and scratch but not to connect. Not to speak. They’ve been silent for so long, since I got out. I got out and suddenly, they wouldn’t move.
My body’s trying to tell me something, and I think I know. I know that I have to try, have to surrender, have to stop making excuses, just make them move, make them dance, make them jump around a page, or a wall or a blackboard or a keyboard. Because I miss you, my words. I miss when words were who I was. Words are who I am. But I haven’t had you in so long, for fear. For fear of the weak, which I have been already. But there aren’t enough of you anymore to keep me alive, so I know that my body’s trying to tell me—to reach out. My fingers haven’t moved but they want to, to splurge and vomit on a dirty yellow page, just to feel relief. My fingers want the words, they need the words, and search my body and my brain and my gasping and my dreams.