Tension

I’m sitting in red clay on the bank of a dried up stream, swatting at mosquitoes and I’m about as uncomfortable as I can be. The near paralysis is so deceptive. I’m a tightly coiled spring that will never release. That tense. A storm system with lightening and hot heavy air. I’m all waiting and no rain. My mind is crawling through a broken window, it’s squeezing through a buttonhole, threading through a needle. It will not be soothed. It knows there’s a leash around its neck, if it could only bite through. Tectonic plates are shifting and I’m running to catch the cups as they fall. And why? Why not take the broken shards and cut a way out, be born of blood and pain?