The words won’t write themselves. I struggle with them, ropes tangled around my limbs, knotting around my throat. I wake up and I tell myself to write, tell myself that the words are worth something, even just as crumbs that I drop behind me, gobbled up by hungry birds.
So, I write and delete and save a dozen half-finished drafts. What do you say when the whole world is a cold marble floor and you are cheek to cheek with your shadow?
My fingers seem longer than they used to and he traces their length with the tips of his own. He tells me I should have been a pianist. I say I was, long ago, in another life.
He tells me I should go get my blood work done, let the doctor solve this mystery of my body. Promise me, he says, this week you will go.
I don’t have the heart to refuse. I take my cement feet and dozing brain toward the hospital but always find a reason to retrace my steps.
I forgot to fast.
I didn’t bring my requisition form.
I don’t have time.
He tut tuts me and wraps me up in his arms like he can will me better. I can’t stop visualizing the vials of blood. I can’t stop feeling like I’m draining the life out of me and one more vial will be one too many.
I cancel my follow-up appointment.
Pull the covers over my head and let the drowsiness wash over me, falling in and out of sleep with the tide.
Tomorrow I will go for blood work.
Tomorrow I will write.
Tomorrow I will.
Mimicking Birds – Home and Somewhere Else