what words are made of

I’m standing on the edge of something. Something deep and velvety, a soft darkness that envelopes. Summons. I don’t know whether to float or fall.

People keep giving me time in ‘justs’— it’s just a month away, just a week, just a day. When did my potential become a countdown? Who decided this, and why.

There’s the key word; I’ve finally caught it. Why. Why, why, why. Why?

Sometimes I feel like I can put my hand right through this wall. Like my thoughts can move stone and brick, make the rain fall backwards, droplets rising up from dry ground—sometimes I believe there’s nothing I can’t think into being. And why not? Isn’t that what it’s all about?

Maybe it’s about pressing your feelings into the paper; go ahead, they say, dip your heart in ink and stamp out its contents. Don’t worry about that black sticky residue, the aftermath of delving deep—it will rinse. But what if it doesn’t? I can’t seem to wash this organ clean; it just sits here, pumping hot blood onto the page.