These days I have an inexplicable hunger to unstitch the
threads that encompass me. The fabric hangs heavy from my collarbones, claws at
my neck, dares me to rip it at the seams and let it lay where it belongs, in a
bundle in the corner of your room.
These winds so far, it seems, are the only thing that can
penetrate these walls. As of late they’re the only thing to rock me to sleep.
Like the Santa Anas I believe deeply they are here to welcome change, and at
night I lay skin to silk and think about all the changes that just one change
will bring. I feel deliciously reckless.
At the same time I am reeling at the openness of these
possibilities and this invites countless stomach flips so that I find my diet
consisting mostly of black tea and whiskey. My best friend is I-70, my home a
scarf flung loosely around my shoulders to ground me, I laugh at the biting
cold that whips through my open windows and I don’t turn the radio down until
I’m exactly where I want to be. Staying in one place seems impossible; I can’t
stand to sit down anymore because I’d rather feel the length of my legs beneath
me.
The wind burns me raw and I welcome it.
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