Francesca

self-wall“Then at one point I did not need to translate the notes; they went directly to my hands.”

Something about this position; about being held up and struggling to be held. About sharing the weight with the wall as it’s pushing you away, dragging you further down. Something about the blood draining, pouring from your arms slowly into the center of the body. Something about letting the head drop, letting it fall to the earth; it feels like giving up. If I stay here a little longer, it will get easier. I will get tired and forget.

“Then at one point I did not need to translate the notes; they went directly to my hands.”

The words slid down the soft surface of my arms, poured into my joints; they went directly to my hands.

They passed through my hands along the painted surface; they floated over layers of color.

They expanded to the corners of the room and ran along the floorboards.

They cut through dust, chalk and broken glass; they rippled through the solid surface of earth.

They climbed high, reaching for the ceiling; they travelled far above my body.

They move at the speed of light, dancing faster than the eye can trace.

They raced towards the door, the brass knob just out of reach…

Then at one point I did not have the will to cross the threshold; I turned around and jumped.

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