There’s More to it

I’ve written and rewritten sentences. I know what to say, how to say it. Manageable. Only there’s too much of it, no right amount of time, and I can’t bring myself to.

What if I said that I could do it all? Let me show you what I’m capable of.
They’re dirty words. Guilty pleasure. Filthy secret. Unattainable expectation. Dreams. I’m a fast learner with brilliant ideas. Forget my hands shaking.

There’s something in the pit of me that drags me into the same spot on the coach. The (someplace between metaphorical and neurological) weight in the hollow keeps me. I’d have my chest ripped up and stitched back together again to comprehend what it is. Strong enough to make it to the keyboard but not to move my hands.

So I stay there and I don’t move because that’s better than the coach.
My lungs can’t hold the air I’ll need so I can scream until the clutter inside is gone.
I’d probably lose my voice before I’d see the end of it. That’s usually how I do it.

But I want it so bad. There’s more to it than that. I can prove it to you.