‘ i’m sorry. ’ these are words she is used to saying, a desperation repetition captured where tongue should be ( sorry to a husband who barely looks at her anymore, sorry to an affair that twisted barbed wire deep inside her gut, sorry to patients that see little behind the blink imprint of her eyes ). she presses hands against her eyes, digging palms in so deep that her vision blurs black - black - black. her breathing is a drawn bow, a body ready to snap : release is her posion of choice ... but she will not cry here. she drops her hands to her sides and pretends they do not shake, that she does not shake. ‘ thank you for handling it. i don’t know what came over me. ’ @blendintowalls










