Today I sit here
watching my day as I felt it
in my body.
My hand feels swollen, but I know
it’s not.
It’s stolen from me.
A function. A strength.
At that moment I couldn’t write,
but now I can.

My hands are feathers
carried by the wind.
I land in a dirty gutter.
I land on a bed of flowers.
But nothing remains the same.

I feel it coming.
I am standing in front of a herd
of buffalo.
Ugly. Smelly. Heavy. Gross.
I am them. They are me.

I cannot plan tomorrow;
I do not know how I’ll feel.
Next week fine; help is on the way.
I lie back, turning, the seat
curved against me.
My seat belt rubs, chafing my neck.
This too? It is too much.
Will you drive me? What if, what won’t.
I’m tired.

Sometimes I am under my house.
The soil is sandy, pebbles
push into me.
I feel its weight.
Don’t move across the house.
It breaks my bones.

Please take my wrist
and pull me gently.
Let the rain wash over me.
My anger, my sadness, my fear—
wash away.

Today I will smile.
I’ll push through.
My video goes nowhere.
Who will understand
I do everything. I do nothing.

Tom opens the floor.
He’s taking me bit by bit.
I don’t see him.
He steals from me.
I cannot stop him.
I don’t see where he is.

He’s in my hand.
He’s in my thigh.
He’s in my voice.
He’s in my breath.
Salivating on me.
I am wet.
I am here.
I cannot stop and so I go.