Flat Rate

I cringe most of the time, you know, ashamed of the narcissistic drivel and loose ends I have produced, grateful it hasn't passed the threshold into outside eyes; I want for it to burn. I doubt my unwavering conviction, scoff at my ambitions and cry out of fear that this is the best I can do. Me in my smudged glasses and unkempt hair, me who hasn't been outside the door for two days except to walk the dog, me who cannot carry on a decent conversation with my roommate because I am in a deep fog. Friends reach out and I am unpleasant in return. This room is a disaster of half-drunk coffee cups and piles of dirty clothes.

But in the silence of this shuttered weekend, in the stillness inside these four walls, the Story grows. It lives in me and works itself out while I stare into opiate nothingness; it moves when I do not. And at the end of the silence, I see a few words connected together that make sense, a soft melody that I instantly adore, a turn of phrase that makes the anguish worth it. I forget that the process is so malevolent, I forget how it tears at my seams, no matter.

For just a morsel of that song in my bones,
I would endure every pain it asked of me
grateful
and asking for more.