Mother Theresa, your dress is aflame.
i think i need to sit down. bang on this keyboard until my hands hurt or the neighbors wake up. until the buttons fly off onto the carpet and to that mysterious world where you lose things and they never come back. my stream of thought is stuck. i feel all of it backed up by some invisible dam’s stone walls. overloaded. i have so many things on my mind and so much more emotion to shove down my throat, to hide from the naked eye. i have my hands full. sometimes i try to get lost in that place. to lay next to the remote that was never found. right next to the mailbox key. the missing sock when you’re sure you put the pair in the dryer. the nail clippers. yesterday’s newspaper. the twenty dollar bill. your favorite toy. your lucky marble. your father. your courage. your understanding. your sleep. your speech. your brain. yourself.
