I do not want to move. I sunk in the bath so my ears were submerged. The fear of hearing ones own heartbeat, attention to the muscle that goes out, flickers, in a moment. It will.
I’ve lost the will to write to you. Pacing back and forth in the hall, hair leaving trails on the floor, I caught a shadow that wasn’t mine. Ghosts, you said, love us indiscriminately because of our heat.
Silence builds things behind our back. Cities, dorms, caves. Maybe even a bird house.
There’s a storm out. The waves are calling out numbers. 5202, they said, and then, 64. I wait for the 3’s. Nothing. What keeps me from writing down my last note and forgetting what I promised?
I picked up smoking again. This is the one true thing I’ve done all day. I make myself feel better by counting the inhales. Three and then I put it out.
A moth landed on my arm. I shook it off then regretted it. Convinced it was my grandmother trying to tell me something.
The cigarettes comes on the heals of the apparition. Seeing things takes the whole length of you, then buries it.
Tell me something about your wrist. Keep me distracted so I won’t feel a weight inside me grow larger.
Silence, you said, is a blessing. And I kept still for four hours, only the waves outside broke my concentration. I feel like fading.
I’ve lost the will to write to you. Lost the deed somewhere in the courthouse. There are hundreds of You’s. Lists I keep in my bathroom, under the rug. The water does it’s damage, I know this, but I’m hoping the names will smear until all of you run together.
There’s someone I keep meaning to ask forgiveness from, but who knows where coyotes keep their kill.
While living in the desert, I’d wait all evening just to hear one coyote call to me. This was a sign to kneel. I’d carry mesquite branches and build a nest, then hold myself to it, hang ribbons off the bones, have a communion of sorts.
Now, the letters I rummage through tell me nothing. Last week, I kept peeling the skin off bark and humming, just to calm down.