The Writing

The writing.

I didn’t want to.

My muscles clung around me like hungry bears.

Needles made their point in numerous occasions around my being, the duvet took cover.

My eyelids a broken blind, rammed shut against the light; my eyes disappeared into the background.

It was too much too move. I didn’t.

It was too much too move. I couldn’t.

A giant ball of chaos, my muscles unpicked themselves in reverse spiral.

I got about, but I didn’t know how. I didn’t know where. I didn’t know how.

I trudged to my computer and put it on. It was as lively as I was dead.

Your fresh page drew me. My fingers choreograph the words.

Isobel Knight©