To Us

You wake early, but light, your lungs full of air. The dog doesn't so much as stir, you smile despite yourself. When the ghosts of feelings past return, you bring a fresh pot of coffee to the typewriter and dance through the thickets, weeding out unease and fear by putting them into words: neat, orderly, law-abiding words, they make sense along your spine. I went for a long run along the river later; I ran faster than I knew I could, faster than I should, but I did not stumble. There was a river of daffodils at my feet, a cushion of birdsong along my sides, the sun was bright and the waters trilling. The fear kept up for miles, the tears remained behind my eyelids, but then, bit by bit, they tired, they lost their power, and all that remained was me, panting, flushed, exhausted, but free.

I know the demons when they come, miss them, even, when they are away. The stories they tell aren't pretty, yet they belong in my blood just as much as the sunshine does.

The point, though, is they do not belong more.