my writing makes me want to tear the pages from my journal, scream into the sky, and collapse sobbing into the earth as dirt covers my body and suffocates me.
my hands make me want to twist nervously, to dive into myself, to feel warmth around me before I ask my hands, my tired, chapped hands, to again perform miracles, to save my soul.
my eyes make me want to cry, please, let them cry, because they are strained and swollen and begging for an excuse to be free.
my legs make me want to run, abandoned, over grass fields at sunset, to tear and rip and shred, to claw and eat until I'm broken and gone.
my journal, oh, my journal. she reminds me who I am, makes me breathe, lays me in a field of grass as the sky surrounds me in blue and cream. soft like. quiet. breathing.
shorthand, n. /ˈʃɔːthænd/ free writing, mostly.
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