Saturday, December 7, 2019

There is a spring inside my chest, turned upon itself like an overwound watch. My belly and ribs held close in, my tongue pressed against the roof of my mouth. My teeth grind.

O! Relax my body, each part by each part. My tongue. My belly. My gaze.

Wound like a cord, day after day, I weep today at the uselessness of my tight grip.

Pry open my hands, dear Lord.

(Letter #1,792)