Our Word :: Week 2 Day 4 :: {Quiet}

by Cassie

Well.
The thing is this.
The thing is I don’t know where to start today.

Type.
Stare.
Backspace.
Type.
Stare.
Backspace.

Blank space
Blank space
Blank space
blinking.

All this heaviness
inside my head.
Building up
behind my face bones.
Drumming
Smelling
an inch of cold Lady Grey
left over
from breakfast.
His voice
His monotone tone
And I love it on a good day
but this day it’s just
like ice picks in my ears.

I’ve been spelunking into
this fucking cave for nine days now
and right now I’m impaled
a stalagmite straight through my spine
and I can’t move from where I am
staring up at the small square of light
where all the good air is
where all the good words are.

In the space between the beats
a man held my hands
tied together with a length of rawhide
and an old mother
perched on my shoulder,
in the shape of an eagle.
A warrior with the face of a child.
The way a goose makes a V
in flight by herself
in flight with her family.
My hand pregnant with a silver pen.

But the words abort themselves
all over the paper
a miscarriage of metaphors
and all the things I thought
I’d write about
all the epiphanies sitting in my fingertips
curl up and turn away from me
and from the back,
they all look the same,
they all look as blank as stone.

My failures falling all over me
in a rush to be first to remind me
how useless I am in all my roles.
You’re a shit mom
you’re a shit wife
you’re a shit daughter
granddaughter
sister
friend
artist
writer
human.
You’re shit.
I’m just laying here
with my hands over my ears
but I can’t stop hearing it
from the inside out,
and everything echoes down
down in this darkness
so anything that’s voiced once
haunts me a hundred times.

If all this doubt were venom
I would slice my skin and suck it out
Spit it in my own face.
The only antidote is to just keep living
keep writing
to heave myself up off this spike
and hold my guts in with hands
then spill them out on the screen.

Well.
The thing is this.
The thing is: here are my guts.

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