inch

Inching out of this corner I’ve created, one sentence at a time. One therapy session. One pill. One vacant stare slouched on the carpeted step. One song on the iPhone. Ooh it’s so crowded, hot, dank, give me respite! Or is it cold and my teeth chatter? Cobwebs at any rate.

Painting my portrait, spinning circles around the easel. First sitting regal, then running to stand-still with palette hooked to my thumb. Then back again till the sweat beads pop and are documented in dabs of white and gray. That crease between the brows. Those tangled brows. Botox, NO!

Positives: not beating the children. Good husband. Clear skin. Well-fed. Temperate (ish) weather. Money for groceries. Clean sheets. Health insurance. Wisdom scratching at the door, whimpering like the family dog. GOD spelled backward. Count the good bits like rosary beads. Inch by inch. Silver coins. Pearls. Never forget them. Never forget. Pat your pockets. Touch your heart. Kiss your thumb and forefinger. Bow humble monk of mind’s twisting temple.

xxx

the smell of my own bullshit

i really really really am confused confused confused.
i really really want to be enthused enthused enthused
about writing—which i am! and yet oy fucking vey es meer
if only i were working on another novel here,

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