[6] when I write, this body doesn’t exist
My soul seeps out of my bones, to the pen in my hand, guiding the ink, staining the white paper with words. This body, this structure doesn’t exist. I became ‘her,’ the girl that an English teacher praised for having a vision—the burnout storyteller. She was drowned by so much noise while growing up. She lost her art while performing artless tasks. She lost her voice in every bill she had to pay. She lost her hand in every strategic decision she needed to make. Money, mortgage, groceries, bills, more money, more mortgage, more groceries, more bills—at night I bring her back, and this body, this structure, these bones don’t exist for once.
I guess I'm writing now,
reesa