stomach

I have a grow­ing bile that’s been un­set­tled in my stom­ach for a very long time now. 

The phys­i­cal man­i­fes­ta­tion of pain and un­easi­ness that has been plagu­ing my every­day life has been ab­solute­ly out­stand­ing in a way that’s tru­ly indescribable. 

   The
           puckered
                      acid-bubbles
                                 sit
                                            deep
                                                       down
                                                                  in
                                                                             my
                                                                                        bel­ly beg­ging to be popped in a way that’s sup­posed to sat­is­fy the palate but I can’t fig­ure out how to please these facets of my body. 

There’s some­thing I have to do, some­thing I have to cre­ate, an itch that has to be scratched but time and even abil­i­ty has chained my arms and legs to the wall. It’s moved me to stay awake in the small hours of the week. 

I’ll suf­fer all the more for not sat­is­fy­ing this ob­ses­sion that’s avoid­ed me but stuck to the gray mat­ter of my brain like a cancer.
 

—brit­tknee

Flom­mist Brit­tknee fre­quents cof­fee shops. Her sec­ond self, Car­la, fre­quents the work­sta­tion. Bleary-eyed. Fore­head scrunched. Fum­bling through your re­al­i­ty. March­ing through our own. Copy­right © 2016 Brittknee.

MOR D’ARTÍCULOS  MOR FLOMM !

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