My insides are withering. I’m sitting at the conference table waiting for each person's status update and praying that no one has anything to say at all but the small talk of unremembered 80’s movies is unrelenting. “Which version of Harold and Maude did you see, Romy?” “The Harold in the version I saw wasn’t nebbish” I reply. They don’t know I am seeing protons teeming in the air and the table has a blue aura for split seconds at a time. I don’t know if the sterile grey office atmosphere is directing my eyes to entertain hallucinations or if I am bleeding out.
Are there are no words to articulate what I am feeling or am I just a limited girl with numb legs? The pain is not dull nor sharp; it’s localized but not clearly demarcated. Maybe it’s something like horseradish squishing in between your ligaments, and you can’t really identify what is what or where, but it’s clear you need it exorcised immediately.
Are there are no words to articulate what I am feeling or am I just a limited girl with numb legs? The pain is not dull nor sharp; it’s localized but not clearly demarcated. Maybe it’s something like horseradish squishing in between your ligaments, and you can’t really identify what is what or where, but it’s clear you need it exorcised immediately.
My friend got me an Elaine Scarry book called The Body in Pain that I never read since I am constantly postponing pain for pleasure, not realizing I’m running in place. Running makes your body hurt. It’s like how your baby hair stops being so delicately soft and your eyelashes no longer seem cartoonishly long and you can’t even remember the day it happened. I’m only 23 and I feel washed up so imagine when my menstrual cramps calcify into menopause.
Subway light refractions are shooting from 5 dimensions in space and I feel like I am floating in a rocket ship. The White business man next to me is not seeing what I am seeing. He is on page 377 of a Malcolm X biography.
Spectacular awaits yawns the newspaper in front of me.
