Photo by Calvin Hanson on Unsplash nestled in the corner cushion cold feet tucked under my legs head resting on a pillow awake yet dreaming i am wild, free to be whole, in love with me no longer in need of the old words: (selfish . . . too much . . . liar . . . not enough . . .) here: I Am Whole still reality calls me home but as i un-dream i un-become
Photo by Fred Kearney on Unsplash The colors bleed together into a mass of indistinguishable shapes a swirl, like the background when you spin on a tilt-a-whirl the rising discomfort, straight from the belly, the pressure at the back of the head, a chorus of discomfort singing above a symphony of symptoms.
In college, I got a little obsessed with coffee. Somehow I got it in my head that writers drink coffee. Part of this, I’m sure, was because my writing professors always carried around their coffee mugs. They had their mugs sitting on their desks during class. They had them on their desks during office hours. They walked down the halls carrying their mugs. I’d meet with other writers from my classes and they too would have their cups of coffee while we wrote. I started ordering coffee and drinking it but I never really liked it. Beyond the jittery feeling, it also made my stomach hurt. Still, I kept drinking it for a time. I tried different flavors, like hazelnut thinking that might help. I do love hazelnut. I tried adding lots of creamer and sugar. That only made my stomach more upset. And then one day I learned that one of my writing professors only ever had water inside his mug. This was a revelation to me. I realized then that the tactic I’d been using at parties, of filling my cup