out on a limb

Sometimes, like today, I feel like I feel feelings too much to function in a normal world. The everyday work. The chaos. The cellphone world. The internet world. The connected to wires and everything connected back world. I can hardly handle my own feelings let alone reading about, seeing, being a witness to everyone else’s feelings. I’m a good watcher. Maybe I’d be a good stalker. But I’m missing a major creep gene.
Maybe a lump on a tree. A crumb on a table. A pigeon in a crowd. Alone in a cyclops lake. A seed encased in the fruit of the highest branch. It’s not that I want to be insignificant. I just don’t want you to notice me. Except that I do. Except that I don’t.
I don’t like it when doctors touch me or ask me how much a cold makes me cough. I’m all nerves with a shock on top. The more I write, the less I’m able to bury. Which is good for writing, but bad for sunbathing and strangers who flirt with you on the metro or clerks who ask if everything fits ok (NO!) and letting this, inhibitions and others go for the joy of one grand orgasm. I have a voice when I need it. It rises hot in my chest, the tingle of words, sounds, flush, the push of it coming out of my mouth. I like when it comes from my hand.

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