A Quiet Parting of the Lips

I’m not lazy, sir.

It’s just that lifting a finger to scroll down so I can read what you’ve assigned is harder than the time I tried moving the closet by myself. I know it’s possible, but I look at my fingers and I think, “move, dammit,” and they just sit there, not moving and not mine.

I know I live five minutes away from the classroom, but even the sun shining through the curtains can’t seem to make me leave my bed, even just to take care of all that brightness. So, I lie there thinking about how there’s enough time to get dressed but my lids grow heavier. I remain still, far too still on the bed that has become a part of who I am, under the soft blankets there is a refuge, there is comfort, there is home.

Gravity seems to have a larger effect on my dehydrated body; the water is right there if I just reach for it but what’s the point? My eyes slide shut; the empty place awaits. I don’t dream much these days.

Madam, I’m sorry for not writing that paper. I just have a problem forming words these days, and it makes me want to be quiet. There is a quiet inside of me that I’ve always been afraid of. It’s taking over me now, not quite noticeable but it will consume me soon and I don’t think I want to fight it. Let it envelop me, and be relieved when I no longer catch fire. It’s what everyone wanted anyway.

Ma, I know you miss that sparkle, but it’s dulling down and I can’t do much about it. The child you wanted isn’t here and the one you have doesn’t know how to pick up the phone. I wish I could call you without being afraid, and wanting it to be over before it starts. It would be nice to be in your arms if only I weren’t scared of them crushing my bitter, brittle bones. Like a tsunami, seemingly starting from a single wave that wipes out entire cities, the poison spreads through me.

There’s no fizz, no bubbling, just a slow, dulling numbness. It’s blocked the way out. The tears don’t cleanse, because they barely flow.

Friend, typing takes so much out of me, and I barely have anything to give. Call me, and I’ll apologize for the ensuing silence because my throat is dry, and my tongue won’t cooperate; it sits heavy in my mouth and refuses to do its job. I’m aware of never making plans but when I do, I’m sorry I just want to be held. In silence, we sit, because noise startles me and I’ll run back into hiding. Isolation is so much easier than being truly lonely among people you love, and you know who loves you back, but I’m not sure about the reciprocation of my affections either.

The days are growing longer, and panic is steadily rising up inside of me.