The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

take it as you will

Small headache rolling under the skin. Skin stretching against bone. Bone protesting the pressure. Pressure in the face. Face looking as though there is a headache rolling under the skin.

I type in a bra and underpants. It is comfortable, it is temporary. It is for no one but me. There are imperfections I can feel without moving my fingers across them. Imperfections I can see without looking. They don't matter, though. Not today.

Went to bed last night in a state of frustration, at the state of the world, at the fatigue I've come to view as a friend. Where did the animal go? Hibernating? Foot caught in a trap? Shall I gnaw at the captured limb until I am freed? Will the pain and the blood be too much for the glory of liberation? I don't know. I don't know much.

I feel like I need to communicate in a way that is authentic to me. I am busting with capital letters. My voice is imploding inside me, threatening to erupt in a flood of lava words and acid inflection. But, I cannot do it. He doesn't want to hear that. He will put up a wall and all the words will come back at me, splashing and burning. What I do, then, is wait. I wait for opportunity. I wait for open doors and windows. I wait for a naked Sunday with a grey sky. I wait for a warm hand to touch my thigh. I wait, and I wait, and I wait.

I am a fool.