Some days I wake with legs of a baby giraffe. still learning to balance my body with limbs. wobbly.
Some days my skin is a slight meniscus membrane. barely tearing
by the pointy parts of a softened skeleton.
each movement. unsteady.
Some days each step is made. with. such. intent.
learning to walk again.
Words are carefully thought. sentences strung and re-strung long before
they leave my lips. or.
not spoken. just heard. in my head, in my head.
in my head. goals are shelved.
The day is exhausted by my intrinsic linguistic pugilist. in cognitive combat with depression’s ventriloquist.
Written – just now – Thursday, May 23rd, 2013.