On The Muscle


It’s nothing and everything like you thought it might be. The words come out dry and sand like, they slip between your fingers, between your lips. They’re all used up and dried and the muscles are sore because you don’t use them anymore. I tell other people the same things I should be telling myself, things like wake up earlier, and stay in the room. It’s funny, all these years later and your lesson is still the only lesson I cannot learn. You told me when I was young to stay in the room. It’s been ten years and I only now understand what you meant.

The only difference between you and the person you want to be is how you spend your idle hours, the moments when you first wake up. I tell him that, and other things that I don’t believe in. The muscles are weak and he’s sending me photographs of a treehouse I’d seen in my dreams. And not the sweet dreams, but hot night lose yourself fever dreams. I’m always screaming when I wake up at all.

I suppose the only thing left to do is to get back to the real work of it.


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