Abstract for a writer’s soul.
The weather is the only friend I have. I’d like others, but I’m too ashamed of who I am.
It’s hard for me to speak, to control my breathing. I end up in a kind of spotlight that freezes me in place, nailed to the boards. Sometimes I’m like a horse at the starting gate, thrashing about as the crowd groans, impatient. I’m crazy and won’t go into the gate. The race starts without me and they talk about putting me down. She won’t run, they say.
Give her more medicine. Something to numb her living. Turn her into water, circling round.
Everyone looks at me and eyes are knives.
Online I read the weather report, the projections fluttering on my face in the half-light. Please no sun, no clear days with kites in the sky. No spring flowers. I only want good weather, bad weather for you, but we’re…
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