Francis Skeeta

I just got winded from helping our “disabled” postman carry some boxes to his truck.  “You look able to me!” was maybe something that should’ve been an inside thought.

My chest heaved mightily.  I felt muscles burn.

There is a thing with my neck area with a word that scares me.  I cannot say the word because it feels like lead on the tongue.  An anvil of a word that does not burn, it’s just very, very cold. 

Yesterday, a lot of blood and hair.  There is a smell that comes from a lot of blood that has flowed and dried that stays with you for hours after you have washed your hands multiple times.  I think it harbors in the nose.  I think it sinks into your brain.  I think it was soaked into my clothes.  I am tired of low injuries while simultaneously wanting things to die.

I feel so much shame at these thoughts.  A comfortable shirt.

Eleven days into the year and my judgment is benign.