At the expense of a small wrist dance, I forgot what there was. I forgot the posture, the safety as words hug me, the comfort, the stream falling down my eyes as I hold a pen to write, how it takes the venom out of me, how it kills the illness, suffocates the worries and ease the pain. I forgot the healing at the end, how I read the self-made prescription, wipe up the tears and meet a sense of closure, moving on.
I needed to be understood so much so that I couldn't bother to write as I wanted. I had to keep it plain, no curves, no loops, no stream of consciousness. I can't afford anything that would prevent them from understanding me. I need someone to understand.
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