A little busybody wiggles beneath the skin, running through halls of memories, avenues of veins, banging on the edges of flesh. I am flesh. A beat. A fleshed beat behind the ribcage and a thud, thud, thud, thud, thud. I was born licked by flame, resuscitated moments from the first breath, and I’ve carried that brief limbo between life and death with me ever since. Scarred heel, prick the skin to test the product; like a cockroach, I live. And here I am, crouched over, while the endless loop of purpose comes back around to remind me of all I haven’t done yet. I guess I am wondering why I write, or rather, why writing found its way to me?
The city inside my body runs fast. Chug, chug, chug, like pearled water down a raw throat. Close trachea, hack, spit, breathe, repeat. I am parched for sensations I’ve never felt before; I am wracked with a frustrating passion and a cold coffee. DRAFT NONE means there is a place for my unplaceability. It’s a temporary postal code for ugliness, embraced whether I like it or not.
If my hands were hollow, I would crawl inside and find the culprit of all of this. But I can’t, so here I write for you.
Love, PJ
