Melts

I'll name my first son Frank. Honest.

Other things:

Sometimes my brain spins so quickly that the heat from its rotations melts its will to continue.

Sometimes the girth of what I want to say and the weight of my inability to say it fuse as a scream within me, a scream that I save for the insides of refrigerators.

Yesterday I woke up to heart pain, its beat weak and sporadic. I knew a heart could hurt, but I didn't know a heart could hurt.

The so far unseen manifestation of my painful self-awareness is an electric tingle, sprawling head to toe.

People find my dark as evidence of wrong. My light is evidence of right, but so is my dark, and those whose brows that furrows can only grow so close to me.

How do I rid myself of the homegrown obligation to write what I'm thinking? I don't even know how to think what I'm thinking. Praying what I'm thinking is enough of a feat most days. All days. I feel behind and inadequate and mis-purposed and... tired.

I do not write because I am tired. Sometime I do not smile because I am tired.

Sometimes I use my last energy remembering that I need to rest. To be still and know.

I am still. I know what I know.

Still, what do I know?