Writing/Virus

The words are irregular. Emotional constipation, shock, numbness, and rage riddle the beauty of my creativity with garish self-doubt and hollow, distracted semi-thoughts.

Like gathering spilled marbles on slick floors. And the marbles continue to spill. Won’t stop.

I try to grasp my senses as some kind of handle but the acridness of things feel easiest to hold on to:

the toilet area and evidence that the boys missed, again

the bread dough’s yeastiness rising still

the juice of limes stinging my paper cuts as I marinate the beef

rashes bubbling up on my arms as if I’ve never been exposed to the sun

Zoom echoes Zoom feedback Zooming again

I let go.

The handles make me come to my senses: survival. This is what my life is. Disjointed flavorful painful nourishing learning disjointed

Syntax ain’t for this time because is this time a comma or a period or

The waking up and working out of each day is written on the hearts of friends family my boys my husband

My God

The writing is you and it is me

It doesn’t have to be neat palatable or instagrammable

we write our testimonies

breath

by

breath