I wake up and I can feel my stomach, my guts. It feels empty.
I can also feel my heart in my chest, which in contrast, feels full.
My shoulders need a constant reminder to relax, drop away from my ears, chill out.
I can breath clearly through my nose this morning without the neti.
I see a hair in my periphery down by my chin and collar bone on the right.
My hand is stiff from writing. The familiar indentation has returned on my left hand middle finger.
I hear birds outside.
A school bell rings.
My mom and her bible sit two feet to my right. She’s texting. She’s an audible breather. She says she sighs so much in the morning because she’s excited about life and has to constantly remember to slow down. Her feet rustle under the covers.
A motorcycle drives down Guadalupe a mile away.
Children are playing on the playground around the corner.
A piece of wood was dropped.
My breathing is only audible to myself.
My hand scoots across the paper with short jerky bursts and returns to the left like a type writer.
My heart continues to beat along with five other hearts in this house.
The lines are running out on this page and the cramp in my hand has made it to the top.
It’s quitting time.