to sit in the library and bury myself in thousands and thousands of words, piles of them.
But it’s closed.
to drive my car in the dark, windows down, cold rushing in. Music so loud thoughts are suppressed. Music loud enough to drown in.
But I can’t.
to write down everything that I feel, to make sense of it all, to turn it into something good.
But the right words, stubborn, refuse to come.
to be asked “what’s wrong?” and I want to tell someone and I want them to listen.
I want to scream.
But my voice is gone.