Palm hurts. Not so easy
to write. Feel lately
that I am falling apart.
Maybe
I am. A bunch of
broken pieces and parts.
I’m not yet 40 and I just
wrote the t before the i
in the word it.
Wouldn’t it be easier
to type this? To slip
so easily into the
computer? Am I
slipping into a serious
bout of . . . . Sepia,
now balancing on the
back cushion of
Green Couch #2,
at my toes, the
farthest cushion
from me, the one I don’t
have behind my back
or underneath this
journal. I’m just so creepy.
“Then sleep,” says the
voice inside of my head,
which, I have come to believe,
values rest much more than I do.
