Iâ€™ve never felt this way before: followed by this unnamed dread, this sorrow, and I keep turning to look behind for the hungry dog of my distresses that hides in the bushes, waiting. I never do. I donâ€™t know where she lurks like a bitch in heat, howling in the middle of the night, scratching at the door of my contentment. In the morning there are splinterâ€™s everywhere and my headâ€™s a mess of fragments. Itâ€™s still winter. I keep saying this is the problem. I keep blaming the shivery sliver of mercury hovering below freezing. Ice makes the puddles filmy, and bubbles rise when I poke my booted toe in.
But maybe itâ€™s more. Maybe even with longer days and supple heat and petals this thing will gnaw at me. Some days it feels like Iâ€™ve swallowed the missing shard from a pot glued back together, the porcelain pieces pressed so close the adhesive running between them looks like transparent veins.
Maybe itâ€™s this: I dream about breaking clocks. About scattering the numbers and the minute and hour hands across the snow; about leaping from the clock tower and having my fall take forever, weightless, because finally there is enough time.
I wake up and throw myself at the day. I know this isnâ€™t graceful, but animals arenâ€™t when there is a terror or a wound to lick. Itâ€™s like Iâ€™m always at the edge of the forest with the scent of smoke curling at my nostrils. The days are too short, and at the end of each I am still thirsty.