Every word I write helps remove the steel tine from my windpipe. I staunch the wound with verbal gauze whispered to myself subvocally. But my stiletto of expectations has punched too deep. Too often. The blood fills my throat again every time my hand hesitates to put epiphany to page.
Distraction is not a triage bandage. It's a shot of morphine to carry me through to a surgical repair.
11:08 p.m. - 2015-06-23
Recent entries:
Tossi Propter - 2018-07-02
Summerscorch - 2018-07-02
Heartdesert - 2018-06-25
Elliptical - 2018-06-25
Back and Callback - 2018-06-18
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