Between the Lines

I have been bleeding from my skin and dripping salt from my eyes.

The ink will come.

It always comes.

The pressure builds and I wonder how a person can survive the days

and if my forehead will wrinkle itself inward with worry

I read too much in bed when I was small

my shoulders and forehead were formed with

ink and pages

Now is the time to act, I keep hearing.

I rise with frustration of needy things

The things that could be cleared with a duster and a push of an opening window.

I wait in bed, breathing in the day, wanting to scoop sweet vanilla ice cream into my black coffee

instead of almond milk.

Wanting to inhale the inspiration that pulls and tugs at the sheets around my long legs.

Peppermint Patty would hustle in Birkenstocks and not give any shit what she was supposed to be doing

I am supposed to be writing

and moving it

like the tides into the hands of the capable ones.

But I am capable and it moves me to feel stronger in my steps.

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