The ticking of the clock in the living room echoes
my footsteps, my breathing, and my anxious heart beat.
Something has robbed me of sleep and I am not myself
until the pencil twirling around my fingers in the clumsy coping mechanism comforting only to the strangeness in my bones
Where my guts can spill in an array like sunshine on water
across a page and cut through, not skin but my rain gray barren landscape mind. I am not myself,
movie screen actress spiraling in graceful slow motion.
the kind no one notices because they're cursed with braces in adulthood.
Hiding from starry eyed children and anxiety ridden adults, I have not been myself. Pacing, with paper guts and pencil limbs.
Copyright © evelyn collins | Year Posted 2018
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