My discipline oscillates between rigid and faltering. My bones feel calcified into brittle stone. I am built of resolve that is only sculpted into hard edges after self-envisioned rejection. I put myself back together with sweat and exhaustion as my brick and mortar.

I squeeze a worrystone hard enough to wring blood from it. But the viscous fluid leaking from my palm is really from the ragged gash I gave myself. Slicing my hand open with the edge of a curve from sheer tunnelvision.

I grind my teeth hard enough for my jaw to ache immediately. My mind spirals into smaller and smaller circles, orbiting the idea of sleep. I flirt with the idea of dreaming of lost love. Like walking unnecessarily close to a raging river. I toy with the idea of washing my hands in the torrent. But really, I know I'll fall asleep mid-stride, and pitch headfirst in the brutal and unforgiving rapids.

12:22 a.m. - 2014-05-22